


The Wroth of the Phoenix.

by Turandokht, Wardown



Series: The Dragon against the Raven [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (just really late), (rarely), ...But this is a fairly bitter kind of better., ...but the situation makes her pretty dark in this story., A knife kind of removed that., BAMF Daenerys Targaryen, Blood Magic, Blood and Violence, Bloodshed, Bran is King, Canon Compliant, D&D suck, Daenerys Resurrection Week, Daenerys Targaryen Deserves Better, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Daenerys Targaryen Lives, Daenerys Targaryen is Azor Ahai, Daenerys Targaryen-centric, Daenerys is not POV, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, Dictatorship, Education of a Princess, Essos, Execution, F/F, F/M, Fire and Blood, Gen, High Valyrian (ASoIaF), Human Sacrifice, Jonerys is Not the Endgame., Minor Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Murder, POV Third Person Limited, POV Third Person Omniscient, Peasants' Revolt, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 08, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Religion, Resurrection, Revenge, Revolution, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Slavers deserve it, Slavery, The Prince That Was Promised, Torture, Valyrian Steel Swords, War, War Crimes, Westeros, it's not over till it's over., panopticon, totalitarianism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:09:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 139,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25901110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turandokht/pseuds/Turandokht, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wardown/pseuds/Wardown
Summary: When Jon Snow commits treason and plunges his blade into Daenerys' breast, the Lord of Light is not finished with Azor Ahai. Drogon lands in Volantis--Quaithe mysteriously arrives to guide Kinvara. By sacrifice, amid smoke and fire and blood, Daenerys again takes breath, damaged and twisted by her death, but remembering three cardinal convictions, three objectives to guide a second chance at life: Liberty, Revenge, and Family. The world overturns in War, and a young girl from the aristocracy of Old Volantis is challenged by her family's ancient connection to the Dragon Queen. This story is beta-read and directly contributed to by Wardown, and inspired by discussions with him, as well as a request to Wardown by Morrika. Chapters in which Wardown contributes with full scenes are attributed as such.Will update on Sundays going forward.
Relationships: Daario Naharis/Daenerys Targaryen, Yara Greyjoy/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: The Dragon against the Raven [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075361
Comments: 1119
Kudos: 192





	1. No Rest for Heroes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wardown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wardown/gifts), [chss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chss/gifts), [Morrika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morrika/gifts), [Sploot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sploot/gifts), [TargaryenPug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TargaryenPug/gifts).



> Beta-read and contributed to by Wardown, and inspired by discussions with him--and from Chapter 2, featuring his contributions.

**They Will Want To Kill Her**

When they took her from where Drogon left her before the walls of Valyria, the troops guarding the city had come out to try and seize her body. Drogon had taken off, and with the malicious intelligence of a Zaldrizes, had burned the troops marching out from the Black Walls, while leaving the crowds surrounding Daenerys Targaryen’s body untouched. The crowds, worshippers of the Lord of Light, had erupted into cheers, and fallen on the survivors of the companies, who had been forced to beat a hasty retreat behind the Black Walls, with the gates closed, and a siege commencing of the inner city by the outer, as the slaves erupted in violent revolt with Drogon’s aid.

For the moment, of the revolt, Kinvara, the High Priestess of the Great Temple of R’hllor-upon-the-Wall (for only temples to the Old Gods of Valyria were allowed inside the walls, and they were little-used, the places of city rituals for civic duty for the elite, and no Red Priestess would be seen there, when her flock was outside the walls), knew that she could care little of its progress. She had a higher duty first.

The girl was ethereal in death, at a distance absolutely beautiful, as she had been in life. But her beauty was fading on closer inspection. The journey that Drogon had taken from King’s Landing had been a long one, and decay had already set in. She knew that the blow to the heart had been mortal, and it would challenge their resurrection magic. She had been placed on an altar, before which a great fire burned in a pit, tended constantly.

She was ready to attempt this, and would have done it regardless, but she would have feared the result, a creature barely human, if she had tried it without preparation. As it was, some hope was offered by the fact that a mysterious Shadowbinder of Asshai had arrived three days before, warning her to be ready. This woman, who called herself Quaithe, was very insistent. Were it not for the fact that the Red Priestesses themselves practised Shadowbinding, they would have had no truck with each other, and might have come to blows, for the wooden-masked woman clearly held herself at a remove from the Lord of Light.

But she had fulfilled the Lord of Light’s mission in bringing warning of this terrible blow to His champion against slavery and despair throughout the whole world. Thus, Kinvara accepted her as a friend, and the woman stood by and provided advice for the preparations.

There was no greater power than a willing sacrifice, and one presented herself to the flames. When the moment came within the fires of the temple, a dragon’s roar shook the night’s sky beyond, and the ground below seemed to shudder and crack.

Quaithe simply nodded her wooden-masked head with an almost ritualised precision. Kinvara shivered in fear and hope.

The brave young Queen’s eyes snapped open. She sucked in a breath, and then another breath, and shuddered out a horrible, ragged scream. Violet eyes focusing on Kinvara, they hesitated for a moment, focusing and unfocusing, and at last recognising her.

“Your Grace,” Kinvara dipped her head.

“Where… Jon… Treason… Vol…”

“Volantis,” Kinvara nodded, and had wet rags brought, to cool the fiery heat of the dragon’s body, for abruptly alive again, Daenerys was hotter than any normal human, closer to the Lord of Light than other mere mortals, a mark of the Valyrian race, but even this seemed uncomfortably hot for her, as if the light of her resurrection had burned bright indeed.

Daenerys’ eyes flicked to the other side, as a trapped animal, and widened as she saw Quaithe. There was part of her mind there. “Forgive me for not heeding your words.”

“Forgiven, Your Grace.”

Daenerys began to laugh, but it was tinged with hysteria. It was not a laugh of happiness or humour, but of desperation at the age of panic. “Why did I return, when I have nothing? Why did you bring me back?”

“The slaves of Volantis need you, Your Grace. The Lord of Light needs His champion.”

Daenerys’ laugh darkened, her hands uncontrollably tensed and relaxed as her body spasmed on the altar. “There are no more slaves in Volantis,” she said, like it was a statement of objective fact. “Now… True it.” She shivered from the cold rags on her forehead, as if they brought relief from a pain and pressure in her mind, and her voice turned dark. “True it.”

“This, Your Grace, we can do, for your Zaldrizes has shown us the way,” Kinvara replied, and bowed deeply. The war began that night.

For Daenerys, nothing ever seemed quite so clear as it did that night, when for a brief moment, she thought that her resurrection might be as easy as her traitorous nephew’s. But there was life enough for what mattered. Liberation. Revenge. Family. Her course seemed as plain as the hot sun of Astapor, when she had her moment she could never quite rival again. The Masters of Volantis would fall.

~~\-------------------------------------~~

The slaves and freedmen erupted in revolt across the city. Men were torn limb from limb as they were overcome with their swords. The guards of others revolted despite all their years of indoctrination and submission, and stabbed their masters fifty or sixty times with a dozen swords. They carried the women into the streets and raped them in broad daylight, and in many cases, then impaled them or set them on fire. The children, the young masters, were thrown onto spears or forced from upper balconies where their families had hidden.

Many families which attempted to fight back in some order were pressed back toward the docks and canals, where masses of the mob, armed with cudgels, and seized spears and clubs and every other kind of weapon, beat them until they were driven into the water to drown in great piles of corpses which choked the quays and rafted around the anchored ships. Those ships which could cut their lines in time escaped; the others were set upon, and their crews immediately butchered. Some of the freed slaves made a show of ceremoniously eating parts of the bodies of the slavers. Human beings, long denied freedom and dignity, avenged themselves with the same cruelty that had been visited upon them; such was the law of human nature.

Walls of villas that were resisting were thrown down by masses of workers who flung themselves into the effort with hand tools, even under fire from the occupants. There were rarely enough to matter. Those who could, fled to the black walls. But the old Noble Valyrians behind them would not open them for any half-caste slaveowners from the outer city who fled the vengeance of the people they had abused, degraded, raped, defamed, tortured for sport for centuries, unto generations passed. No, they would lower buckets and ropes to rescue a small number from the walls, as their loyal troops fired down into the masses. But nothing more than that, lest they allow the mob in.

They burned some of them, too, turning burning oil on them, dropping it down from the walls on the masses until they retreated. But the Temple of the Red God refused to burn, and instead became the natural rallying point along the walls for the great masses of the slaves who at last tasted liberty, and revenge for untold generations of silent, contemptuously forgotten, suffering.

As the Priests and Priestesses preached, people milled around. They knew that the Dragon Queen had come. They heard, also, that the Dragon Queen was dead. Her Dragon, in a last act of revenge, had burned the companies of soldiers of the Volantene Lordly houses. They celebrated and despaired, all at once, as fine foods were consumed from the tables of the slain, as fine wines were consumed by those who before had only presented them to their masters, if they had seen them at all.

On the second day, they milled around, celebrating, partying, in disorder. The Volantene Lords drew their forces together, and rallied the free men, and placed them under arms. They drew up their plans against the former slaves, who revelled in freedom. They would begin massacres, and when they had the upper hand, commence the tortures, visit upon random slaves crimes and evils and horrors a hundred times worse than any of the desperate and angry slaves had visited upon the half-caste slaveowners outside the walls. Then, when their spirits were broken, the rest would be clapped back into irons, and they would regain control of the situation.

In the meanwhile, fires raged out of control through many parts of Volantis, for the want of organisation to put them out. A body of troops had blocked the great bridge across the mouth of the Rhoyne, so the western city was still under the grip of the slaveowners, who began torturing any slave to death who was educated to read and write, even if they had no done absolutely nothing wrong, because the ones who could read and write were the most likely suspects to spread the revolt to their quarters of the city across the river. These slaveowners knew that the educated slaves—though it was unfortunate to waste them all--would serve as an example to the others not to revolt. Smoke and the scent of charred flesh hung heavy and low over the Rhoyne.

On the third day, a procession descended from the steps of the Great Fire Temple. Masses of the faithful, carrying spears, with or without points (sharpened wooden stakes worked fine for this purpose), and bearing wooden and leather shields, began to advance. The assembled faithful, the acolytes, they formed an Army which began to spread through the streets. As they spread through the streets, they ordered the people, liberated and slaves no longer, to pull down buildings as sacrifices to R’hllor to keep His fire from spreading through the whole city. They began to take control of supplies and gather them up.

Riders on chariots and horses went ahead of these rude but disciplined columns, with some blowing trumpets as others were crying out “The Army of the Lord of Light is in Control!” and thrusting their spears into the air and slamming them in long drumming motions against the sides of their chariots or their shields. As they passed through, a tremendous shout carried through the freed slaves, who were sympathetic to Azor Ahai. Many of them, taking up the arms they had seized, joined the columns which began to enforce order throughout the outer city. Still, the city was so choked with smoke that noon seemed like evening, and fires licked the skyline in several districts.

The Volantene Lords saw the Church moving against them as a great threat. The ominous cry of “The Army of the Lord of Light is in Control!” signalled discipline, and the revolting slaves gaining discipline would mean the end of their power and their lives, for they could only possibly regain control if they maintained the advantage in this factor, which was what allowed them to reign as masters of such a great majority.

The Gates of the Inner City opened, and masses of soldiers in regular order, with their ranks drawn up as tight as the teeth of a comb, began to advance in dreadful silence which was marked only by the deceptively gentle playing of flutes which kept the time of their advance as their sandalled feet tramped the stone streets under their coats of armour. These were citizens leading the remaining slave soldiers, now, and their discipline and readiness to fight for their patrimony made them far more dangerous than the slave-soldiers sent to suppress the revolt earlier on, who had met their fate at Drogon’s breath. Their mothers and wives and daughters stood on the walls and cheered them on, and bared their breasts to the slaves and beat them with the flats of swords to mock the freedmen, who would shortly once again be in chains.

And then a tight mass of a thousand men in mail with swords and hammered steel helmets descended from the Great Fire Temple. They were led by Targaryen banners. They formed a tight and disciplined mass, also, but along their flanks and front, some of their number danced with their swords, in wild and reckless displays of bravery and skill, blades flashing and twirling and spinning in the smokey light. They were the guards of the Temple, and they were transformed, not in their regular dress, but in armour which had been stored in the temple for this occasion, which gleamed in the sun and reflected the flames.

And after the first thousand descended, packed tight between them and the second mass of a thousand, two thousand in all, there was a single palanquin, surrounded by a hundred Red Priests and Priestesses, who chanted: “They will want to Kill Her, but death itself cannot conquer her!”

Laying half supine in silver and white robes on the palanquin, with a face drawn and pale and taut and eyes impossibly too large from the shrinkage of skin and muscle, with other skin, conversely, sagging at her hands, her body so tiny. They still recognised her, with her tremendous platinum silver-blonde hair, her violet eyes, all so distinctive, immediately recognisable.

The crowds erupted into screaming. “They Will Want to Kill Her, but death itself cannot conquer her!”

“MHYSA!”

As the news spread, a dull roar began to spread with it through the city. People began to scream, to jump up and down like they were seized with a mania, to beat objects and bang improvised drums. They all took up the screams and cries of the slogans, until they resounded like a roar of thunder circling the inner walls. The dames and matrons on the upper walls mocking the slaves were no longer so sure of themselves, now.

The terrible shouts came together with a certainty, that word, Mhysa, which began to remove all doubt, that the Dragon Queen was there to lead them in person. A terrible roar came up from the crowds as the palanquin was borne to a great square, in which a press of at least a hundred thousand people, freed slaves all, waited in awe at her arrival and cared nothing for her strange appearance.

At one side of her was a woman in the strange wooden mask of a Shadowbinder of Asshai. On the other was one of the most prominent Red Priestesses, Kinvara. The Red Priestess made a certain gesture, as if she were conjuring magic, and indeed she was. Her voice was unnaturally amplified, so that all could hear it:

“The Queen saved the people of the West from the Night King, the first finger on the right hand of the Great Other, and the demons he commanded. She lost the first of her children, Viserion, and thousands of her men sacrificed their own lives, that the people of the West might be saved. They dwell in bliss now, with the Lord. She saved them from the false queen, who ruled them as a tyrant. She lost the second of her children, Rhaegal, and her dearest friend, Lady Missandei. She is cherished by the Lord. Yet, she freed the people of the West.

But, the Great Other is cunning beyond measure. Many of the Queen’s own servants and allies were his thralls. The Imp of Lannister; the man who wished to restore slavery to Meereen. The Spider, who sought to slay her with poison. The traitor Queen of the North, who takes the form of a wolf to couple with the beasts and demons of her own Northern forests; the monster who enters mens’ minds and calls himself the Three-Eyed Raven.” A hush had fallen over the crowd.

“But, there was one who was worse, by far, than they. The man who professed to love her, who deceived her, who took from her all that she had to offer, whose life she saved repeatedly. The one who slew her with treachery. With false words, like honey on his tongue, he told her, “You are my Queen, now and always. I love you.” And then, he drove a knife through her heart. All this I have seen in my flames. I would tear out my eyes for what they have seen, did I not need them to serve the Lord of Light.” There were cries of excitement and rage now, across the crowd. Some were in tears, others began to chant. Holy words of war and vengeance. Briefly, Kinvara had a vision in her mind. Of millions of followers of the Lord of Light, raging across the world in frenzy, as they followed the banners of the Targaryens, exterminating the followers of the Great Other.

“But, the Lord of Light has still to accomplish his purposes through his champion. The will of the Lord of Light is greater by far than the Will of the Great Other. Behold, Azor Ahai is reborn.” Daenerys rose from the palanquin, as the crowd erupted in frenzy.

As with Kinvara, the Dragon Queen’s voice was amplified, so that everyone could hear it as if she were standing next to them. Hoarse and raw, that high and proud voice needed to muster only one word, and indeed, spoke only one word.

“Kill.”

“KILL.”

“KILL.”

Then she finished it, with a terribly dreadful look in her eyes as the crowd began to roar all the more fiercely, seeming to defy reason and possibility for how furiously they cried, and spoke a sentence that came comfortably to her cloudy mind. “KILL THE MASTERS!” She raised her hand into the air in a single, imperious gesture, and the crowd erupted into a surge of motion.

“KILL THE MASTERS!” They screamed.

“They will want to Kill Her, but death itself cannot conquer her!” They rejoindered in their screams.

A surging mass of hundreds of thousands of freed slaves reinforced the troops which had been formed from the adherents of the Lord of Light. Above them, too, picked men from the body of the Faithful had organised squadrons which had quietly occupied the roofs of all the high buildings along the avenues which led out from the gates of the inner city. This was their real surprise weapon. As the Volantene Citizenry formed in their blocks to receive the charge, they were abruptly met with masses of roofing tiles that were being stripped from the roofs of the high buildings, and hurled down with great force by strong freed slaves who had muscles well honed from countless years of physical labour.

The masses of slaves slammed into the ranks of the Volantenes. Their officers blew whistles again and again. “Stiffen up those lines!”

“Hold!”

“Front rank—thrust!” An instantaneous disciplined ripple of five hundred spears would send hundreds of slaves toppling away from the line with wounds.

“Front rank—receive!” They fell back into grounding position for their pikes.

“Second rank—thrust!” A second rank of thrusting spears tore through the next group of freed slaves, being pushed forward by those behind them, due to the sheer weight of the mob, the freedmen couldn’t stop if they had wanted to, and in their mad frenzy of furious and revenge, many were too worked up on drink and adrenaline to bother to care about their own likely deaths.

But from above, the roofing tiles were hurled, again and again, in great masses, by the hundred every second against the full of the thousands upon thousands of troops Volantis had sent forth to regain control of the lower city. Masses of archers formed up behind the ranks of shield-and-spear and pikemen. They fired up on the roofs, but the freedmen there took cover behind the fancy edges and ledges of the roofs, serving as serviceable parapets, and then rose after a salvo to again hurl the heavy roofing tiles down on the ranks.

The blood in front of the troops covered the paving stones from the masses of men—and women—that their methodical spearpoints had massacred. They had killed literally thousands of freedmen in the space of minutes, and the killing could continue without ending for hours, unto actual physical exhaustion of the soldiers, until the very moment when their enemies finally broke, or else they were too tired from the act of killing to actually raise their spears to stab again.

But the damned paving stones were wet with blood, and the opened and squashed entrails of the dead freed slaves, who sacrificed their freedom for the liberty of yet more, and embraced death, and now were ground under the heels of the advancing columns—literally.

The men slipped, and staggered, and stumbled, for so great was the concentrated killing that it was hard to make progress through the charnel house of the bodies they themselves had created with their merciless, disciplined thrusts. All the while, above them, roofing tiles slammed into their helmets and knocked them out, to collapse in their ranks, they broke their arms, they battered weapons from their hands, they broke their feet, they knocked them down, sometimes even through their armour, they dealt a lethal blow.

The casualties began to add up.

The ranks began to thin, and the progress of the Volantene soldiers slowed to a crawl. At some final, inestimable moment, they ground to a halt.

Daenerys, dimly seeing, hearing, feeling from the palanquin down in the square, a half-mile distant, raised her hand, and flung it forward, open, in a universal gesture that everyone could understand. The Red Priests translated it into action by the tremendous mass blowing of trumpets.

“The Army of the Lord of Light Attacks!”

“The Army of the Lord of Light is Victorious!”

The adherents, organised as soldiers, of the Lord of Light, made their rushing attacks, in picked bodies which reinforced and drove the slaves ahead of them forward into a terrible frenzy of suicidal attacks. The strikes occurred at a dozen places along the columns. The men on the roofs rose for a last exertion of throwing tiles, and this time they braved the fire of the archers, to keep their own pelting of the Volantene columns up despite the losses, and forced the attack.

Ahead, the Volantene troops wavered in their places. They hesitated. The sheer mass of the attack soon pitted spear again spear, the infamous “push of pike” which was the height of infantry combat between two regular armies in Essos. The Volantenes surely would have been the victors, but they had been so worn down by the roofing tiles from above, by the sacrifice of the freedmen ahead, they had slipped and stumbled through paving stones slick with blood, so that as they tried to ground their spears and hold their positions, letting the butts of the pikes rest between the paving stones for the force, the hedgerows required to hold back a great mass of men, they could find no purchase. They slipped and stumbled and fell, and now as they fell, they were crushed, beaten, and stabbed to death, their eyes ripped out and their heads cut off, as they were destroyed utterly and their bodies torn to ruins, by the mass of the enemy advancing over them, with their comrades falling back with no time to save them.

They broke, and with the roar of blood vengeance in every throat of every freedman, the slaughter was general.

  
  


\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


With their armies broken and the young men slaughtered, the Lords of Volantis had sent out Nobles to treat with the Dragon Queen, under flags of truce. She was, after all, also of the Blood of Old Valyria. They held the hope that she could be reasoned with.

She had their emissaries executed and their heads flung back over the black walls on catapults. With them was the message that she would treat with the people of Volantis only if the Triarchs presented themselves, if they came with shaven heads, without caps, and barefoot, with ropes around their necks, and surrendered themselves up for death.

Then Drogon had returned, and burned a portion of a district of the city inside the Black Walls. This caused a tremendous drop of morale among the Volantenes, to see part of the inner city burnt by a Dragon, when they were part of the blood of the Dragon themselves. So it was that on the tenth day, be it by drugs or compulsion from their families and the threat of worse consequences too, the Triarchs surrendered themselves up to death, and the elders of the city were permitted to arrive to treat with Queen Daenerys.

A fortnight later, she had been formally crowned as the Queen of Volantis. But for unknown reason, the Dragon Queen could no longer mount her dragon. Drogon stayed close by her side, and appeared to care, and understand, implicitly what she desired, which horrified and terrified the Lords of Volantis. But the Queen who could not be killed did not mount his back and ride above them as a Dragonlord of Old Valyria would have. Something had changed.

So this young girl of noble blood had gone forth, according to the call of the Queen, that she would permit young children to try to ride Drogon, to select a champion.

Now, the Queen arrived to watch on the appointed day, as freed slaves and worshippers carried her in her palanquin to the Great Temple, and others attacked and humiliated slaveowners who had lived in villas in the outer city—for even after all the terrible slaughter and destruction, not all of the half-caste slaveowners had been massacred in full, but now they were like wild beasts, mocked and humiliated by the freed slaves who now had power over them. The Valyrian lords of the inner city clung close to Daenerys, and bowed, and scraped, and looked on with envy at the Dragon which gave her all the power in the world, and the temple of the God who would not let her die.

There, up before the Lord of Light’s great Fire Temple, Daenerys Targaryen sat on her throne, watching the children from along the course of the outer walls, in a pavilion of fabric of reds and blacks, the Queen seemed a distant, immobile figure. She was shrouded in robes, and surrounded by an army of freed slaves, who had chanted with the fury of a thousand suns when they entered the Black Walls for her coronation, two weeks before, and broken taboo for the first time in history, by staying overnight. The chant had gone like this:

  
  


“They will want to burn her but she cannot be burned up!”

They will want to break her but she cannot be broken!”

They will want to kill her but death itself cannot conquer her!”

On the third day of her death, when it was believed all hope was lost, she screamed: _FREEDOM! over the land must return._ And death cannot conquer her!”

  
  


Anyone who seemed the slightest threat to the reborn Dragon Queen was instantly torn to shreds by the frenzied mob of defenders. Nothing had been able to calm them. So it had gone for weeks.

In front of the girl who considered that terrible, unearthly chant, was Drogon, a dragon to rival Balerion the Black Dread. The girl closed her eyes and repeated this mantra: “I am a Targaryen, my line is born of a Targaryen, my blood is of the old Freehold, down unto the thousandth generation. I am pure, and I need have no fear.”

Her name was Elaena Saerganyon, which was the surname (which meant ‘Line of the Glory of Saera’) permitted to descendants of the Princess Saera Targaryen, who had lived out her wealth and power behind the Black Walls, more than two centuries before. She was the natural choice to ride Drogon, but in fact her family had forbidden her from coming here.

Each day now, for a week, the hopeful had tried. They had approached Drogon, as the Dragon Queen tested the blood of the Old Freehold in Volantis. Each time they had approached this Balerion Reborn, they had failed, or if they were particularly unlucky, they had failed and died. A stream of a hundred and twenty casualties had been carried away, dead or wounded. Still, the interlocutors for the Dragon Queen insisted it must continue—the Red Priestess on her left, the Shadowbinder. The word now was that her miraculous recovery had left her unable to fly Drogon; and indeed, it seemed that the new Kingdom must have a champion.

The families knew the truth, the old blood saw how Drogon nuzzled close to his Queen and Mother despite the strange, mystical distance held between them. Though any one of them atop his back might destroy the Dragon Queen’s power in a heartbeat—it would only be if he obeyed. And though the terrible magic which had resurrected her had left her unable, or unwilling, to ride Drogon in war, it was clear the great beast would obey a different rider only to the extent that his mother permitted him to. Whomever sat on his back would be only the agent of Her will.

Elaena could not turn Drogon on the Dragon Queen. But she did not want to. She was a Targaryen by the blood in her veins; so was the Dragon Queen. She would adapt. She had seen the slaves parading through the streets as victors. She had heard what happened to the women who resisted them. She had decided she had no future, except through boldness. So she fled the house of her family, bereft of the slaves which had once made its vast halls comfortable, and presented herself with the masses, dressed in simple robes which had belonged to one of her family’s former slaves, to try and at least avoid being noticed as an aristocrat for as long as possible.

She would not die by the actions of the freed slaves who now lorded over her family’s city; she would die, if she were to die at all, because of Dragonfire. And if she would live, she would obey the Queen’s summons. The old ways were dead for-ever.

Now it was her turn, and with a swaying motion of confidence, and High Valyrian song on her lips, as in the days of old of the Storm Singers, though their magic songs had been lost, she advanced toward the great black dragon—from the side, where she could be seen, but did not approach head-on in challenge—at a comfortable trot under the faded glory of threadbare fine robes, irreplaceable for her family since the slaves had been freed.

As she approached, Drogon raised his head, and it swivelled sharply on its neck to face her.

She held no fear in her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few historical notes:  
> 1\. The declaration that "The Army of the Lord of Light is in Control!" is derived directly from what the Houthis in Yemen chanted in December of 2017 as they drove through the streets of Sanaa firing weapons into the air and celebrating the assassination of former President Saleh and his ministers (some of whom were shot down in hospital beds)--Saleh had attempted to negotiate a peace deal with the Saudis and UAE in the Yemeni Civil War which would let his Houthi allies out to hang, and for a few days international observers thought that would bring an end to the war. As it turned out, it would not, and the Houthis celebrated in the streets with celebratory gunfire and the cry of "Ansar-i-Allah fi alsytra!", "The Army of Allah is in Control".  
> 2\. The roofing tiles being thrown onto the troops of the Valyrian citizens recalls the defeat of King Pyrrhus of Epiros when he was killed after being crippled by a woman throwing a roof-tile down upon him in the confused and bloody street fighting in the Battle of Argos when he intervened in a civil dispute in that city.  
> 3\. All of this violence portrayed in the first chapter by both sides is real and normal in a slave revolt. The actual answer is not to defend slavery like D&D would have you believe, but to not practice slavery in the first place.  
> 4\. The chant of the adherents of the Lord of Light and the people of the city for Daenerys in the last part is derived from a poem about Tupac Amaru II, the revolutionary general and pretender to the title of the Sapa Inqas, from 18th century Peru, by Alejandro Romualdo. It was edited by Wardown to fit the circumstances in an excellent effort.  
> 5\. Saera Targaryen was an infamous daughter of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator who escaped from confinement at a Motherhouse after a fantastic scandal with multiple lovers, to become a high-class courtesan in Lys. She became quite wealthy and moved to Volantis, where she would have been accepted behind the Black Walls as a pure-blooded Valyrian woman of noble descent. There, she became extremely wealthy, probably on owning and managing brothels. It is known that she had many illegitimate sons; that they would have been legitimised by the authorities of Volantis, with a surname granted to them by the Triarchs, is eminently plausible, especially assuming she used some measure of her wealth as a bribe for this purpose. Thus, Elaena Saerganyon is a relative of Daenerys; Daenerys certainly has closer relatives among the nobility of Westeros, but unlike Elaena, they would not be pureblooded Valyrians.


	2. Levers of Power

In a single moment of a thousand potentialities, Elaena could have easily been burned alive. Several had, and several others had been given burns severe enough that they certainly wished they should have been burned alive. For that moment, Drogon’s breath whispered over her in a roar of dragonfire, and one more Valyrian-blooded aspirant was tured to ash and cinder in the ultimate abnegation of the purity of their blood.

Drogon looked at her. She raced the last distance, and then slowed, and pressed herself up against the Dragon’s side. He snorted, a hiss of steam from his breath. Elaena shivered, a cold shiver, despite the immense heat of the dragon against her.

There was a flash, a surge, as much in her heart as her mind. Then she felt the Dragon, she could feel Drogon closely, a longing, a longing inside of him. He lowered his neck; on spines and crags of scales, she clambered above his shoulders.

The longing was still there. There was a certain distance between them, even as she felt a connection she had never imagined—a completeness, an implicit understanding of the dragon’s will. It gave her just enough warning to grab onto the spikes, and hang on desperately, as Drogon crouched himself, and then lunged into the sky. The crowds roared with triumph that one of the Volantenes had flown.

Elaena felt like she could see the Dragon Queen looking up to her, even as she knew it would be impossible, there was no way to make out her eyes. But it felt like she was there, or, perhaps she was there for Drogon.

 _Why did the Dragon Queen matter?_ With a jerk, she realised she was flying – that she was looking _down_ on the distant scene of the court. It was the visceral realisation that followed the initial, intellectual moment of Drogon’s flight. She nearly lost herself from it, her grip loosening on the spikes of the Dragon’s neck and shoulders before they tightened again.

For some reason, as Drogon banked and rose, climbed and dived, Elaena tracked with each movement. She could see herself spatially in the atmosphere above Volantis, and it began to give her confidence.

The young woman at last looked down again, and saw the city laid out like a model before her. She could see the massive expanse of the mouth of the Rhoyne, the west bank, the bridge—the largest in the world, the Volantenes always said—and the city itself with the black walls standing like a shimmering combination of rock and the darkest glass that could be imagined, under the bright light of the sun. Focusing, she thought for a moment that her eyes identified the particular one-block large Villa that the Saerganyon had lived in now for two centuries.

This was the power of Gods. She could see the land around for so long that, as the books taught, as her family lore repeated, Elaena could clearly see the curvature of the ground below. At last, her confidence overcame her other feelings. She could see the sea to the south, and leaning and straining on the spikes growing from Drogon, coaxed him to turn to the south, and then to descend steadily toward the surface.

At last, skimming along the waves with great and powerful beats of his wings, Elaena on his back coaxed Drogon to turn, and cried “ _Dracarys!_ ” The heat wafted back even as far as her position on his back, and the burst of flames swept like a flash of light through the atmosphere, crackling with with ozone, and the trees flared away with a flash, the trunks exploding.

Drogon then seemed to follow a distant call, and Elaena, connected to him at some primal level, felt a lassitude that kept her from wanting to resist it. He turned back toward the city, rising to a comfortable height, and flying around to circle for a place to land near his mother.

When he landed, Elaena sat there, dimly, dumbly, now, only when Drogon was again on the ground, fully processing just what she had done—she had flown. Sitting quietly on his back, it took several minutes for Elaena to realise that Drogon, snorting and sniffing, was done playing with his new friend for the day; he wanted Elaena to dismount, and she carefully slid down through spikes and over scales to reach the ground, so he could rise and bask in the sun behind her, instead of remaining close to the ground for her convenience. _I have flown._

It seemed like the most perfect moment that had ever existed. She was ebullient with the feeling of triumph, even if Drogon’s connection to her, and continued connection to the Dragon Queen, defied what her family had taught her, of the old legends of the Zaldrizes. Her happiness made her ignore the contradictions. Surely this was going to be the happiest day of her life.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After flying Drogon, a coterie of guards surrounded her, and led her to the Queen’s Palace, inside the Black Walls. They were a barrier no longer to those of lesser races, but this procession saw her placed in a wheelhouse, so she could be screened from view by those around her, she supposed. Alone, and locked in, Elaena curled against one side, her heart still soaring with the knowledge that she had claimed a dragon.

It was a feeling like being a God. She remembered well the stories of her family, of the days of old, when Valyrian had a thousand dragons, when the spires of magic stone rose into the air above rivers of lava, when the whole of western Essos bowed to the power of the dragon, when magic was raised in rock and fire and blood, when witches could sing down storms, and their blood could grant powerful wizards and sorceresses lives lasting centuries.

When half of Essos were slaves of the dragon.

Slaves. Elaena had never thought much about slavery before the past few weeks. It was something that had always existed, would always exist, and was as natural to her family’s way of life as breathing. The blood of the old Freehold ruled over their inferiors. Such was the way of the world. But it was not true, not really, was it? Elaena remembered slaves who had a colouration similar to her own. She remembered her father remarking when Astapor had been overthrown, that it served right the Ghiscari, the upstarts, who on the destruction of Valyria, had overthrown and enslaved the Valyrians in their cities, so that in fact many of the slaves of Ghis were of Valyrian blood. He, with confidence, imagined the Dragon Queen reestablishing a Valyrian-dominated society on the eastern shore of Slaver’s Bay.

Then they had heard wild, lurid rumours, and hope and idle speculation, that perhaps Volantis would become the home of a Dragonlord again, gave way to envy, hate, and fear. And incomprehension. After all, hadn’t Valyrians been the greatest slaveholders in all of history?

Now, Queen Daenerys was the greatest liberator in history, and she was apparently not done yet. Elaena was buoyed by the confidence of her dragonflight, which kept her blood hot and confident. She had triumphed at the Queen’s test, she would serve the Queen.

She was not at all expecting to be dragged from the carriage, once they were inside the palace, which had once belonged to one of the Triarchs. She was not expecting to be made to kneel, and she was not expecting to be fitted with slave-manacles, and then frog-marched into the palace. By the time it was done, a chill had settled over her soul. A terror gripped her, and she felt a certainty that perhaps it had all been a jape, that the Queen had no need of a rider for Drogon. She would be tortured and killed as a warning to her class, or perhaps simply for the Queen’s amusement. Or, worse, for in the months before, when they had sent their fleets against her, many lurid stories about the Queen and her unnatural tastes had been circulated in the city.

Up into the palace she was marched, and former slaves jeered her. “Murderess!” they shouted, knowing nothing about who she was. “Bitch, whore, demons will eat your heart!”

“Give her to me and I will eat her heart!”

“Give her to me, and she will wish I ate her heart!”

They assumed she was brought for judgement for some particularly savage crime. A girl of thirteen name-days, each scream tore deeper into her, until, at least, she was brought to the audience hall. By then, there were already tears on her cheeks, fear, confusion, anger. _I thought this was going to be the happiest day of my life! It was! What have I done!?_

Inside the gleaming black stone of the hall, with the ceiling lined with gold leaf to reflect light across it splendidly, on a low dais at the far end, the Dragon Queen sat. Her advisors—the Red Priestess and the Shadowbinder of Asshai—flanked her, as well as a coterie of temple guards. The Queen’s face glowed with light, and Elaena shuddered and gasped in a breath in shock.

The guards leading her in dragged her forward, and then pushed her down to her knees. They yanked at her clothes, then, and brutally tore them from her body, laying welts across her as the humble fabrics, which had once belonged to her family’s slaves—and were still far better than the common servile chattel in the fields would wear—were torn to shreds, bearing her alabaster skin, unburning under the sun—a mark of the Valyrian race—for all the court to see.

Shame gripped her in equal measure with fear. Elaena thought it could not get worse, that having fallen from the heights of riding a dragon, she could go no lower… When one of the guards approached from behind, and with a few rough cuts of a knife, removed the better part of her fine, silver-blonde hair from her head, falling in a tangled mass of long locks behind her. She sobbed harder.

But nothing could prepare her for the cold iron around her neck as a slave collar was brought into place, snapped around her fine, unmarred, youthful skin, and then bolted tight with a few turns of the rough bolt scoring at her skin. A whimper and a gasp brought home the horrified feeling of nightmarish role reversal, and she looked dimly up at the gleaming, silvery figure of the Dragon Queen.

_By what cruel jape am I to die?_

Queen and advisors alike sat rigidly still, and quiet, observing her. Sniffling and sobbing, Elaena looked up at them across the distance of the black rock floor, with a carpet in red rolled out from the dais down to the entrance. She heard footfalls on the bare stone behind her.

She heard the whistling through the air.

If she thought she had been unprepared for a slave collar, she was perfectly unprepared for the true agony of a whip. Elaena had grown up watching many people be whipped, all of them slaves, many of trivial crimes or even just displeasing their master or mistress. She had been raised to think nothing of it. She was a Valyrian, a Volantene noblewoman raised inside the Black Walls. Those people were literally beneath her, morally, spiritually, racially.

The whip slammed into her back like a blow she could not imagine. There was the sting, there was the cut flesh, but the actual _strength_ behind it staggered her, and caused her to collapse forward, until her forehead was against the rock. Her breath expelled in a sharp, ragged gasp. The pain was too great for her to find where to scream, until it blossomed fully, deeper into her back from the cut, and an exquisitely howling yowl of pain ripped from her thirteen year old lungs like nothing she had known before.

And that was just the first stroke. They could whip slaves for a hundred.

“There is no need for another,” the woman on the throne said with a distant voice, and rose. “Lower that whip—and go burn it at once!”

The words confused Elaena as much as the torture had. She looked around frantically, and saw the men retreating, while the silver-masked Queen, with her advisors at her sides, descended toward Elaena, walking down the carpet.

Still, through the fog of the confusion and the pain, Elaena lifted herself up, desperate for one chance, and sure she had one chance only. She remembered what the slaves of the city said. “Mhysa, free me!” She called.

The woman in the silver mask, with the circlet on her head, and the hair that had been like Elaena’s until it was cut, stopped immediately, and stared at her for a moment that seemed to last forever, in silence. Then she raced forward, and Elaena felt warm hands on her neck, working the bolt with fingers that seemed weak. One of the guards approached, bowed deeply, and handed the Queen his tool, and it came smoothly.

“Cut the manacles, and condemn them with the collar to the flames also!” Daenerys ordered harshly; and her guards rushed to comply.

Then, gentle hands, of dry and taut flesh, reached up, while the guards worked to free Elaena of her bonds, and retreated. They wiped the tears from the girl’s eyes, and she spoke in a sad voice: “Anyone can be a slave, Elaena Saerganyon. I was sold to a man like a piece of meat to be his to do with as he pleased; though I was made a wife, I had no power over my own body. In Old Ghis Valyrians are owned as slaves, and in Volantis, Ghiscari are owned as slaves. Your family owned slaves, your family committed crimes. I was going to teach you the wickedness of this, but I heard my name called; it cannot go on. You have learned enough. You understand what it means. Mhysa. I know what my duty is.” Her hands brushed gently across Elaena’s cheeks, and through the chopped remnants of her hair.

“How,” the Dragon Queen asked her, so softly, in a voice that seemed gentle and hollow all at once, “do you want me to make amends?”

“Spare my family,” Elaena gasped, through hoarse, ragged breaths. The intensity of the roiling, conflicting emotions made it impossible for her to stop sobbing, as those taut but gentle hands caressed her, face inscrutably hidden behind the silver mask.

“A fair price for a blow of the whip. It will be done. They will receive no further punishment for their past crimes.”

Elaena sank against the hem of the Queen’s dress, and kissed it. In response, Daenerys tugged her to her feet. The Queen, though an older woman by a fair number of years, was barely larger than she was, a small and delicate person whose power had come from her dragons, but more than that, from her intense fortitude of will. Kinvara helped her lift Elaena, and helped Elaena to walk.

The Queen pressed close to her side, they took Elaena back into the Queen’s private apartments, and to the baths there, filled with hot water. The Queen stood and watched quietly, as servants, paid servants now, helped Elaena into the water, and bathed her, and dressed up her chopped-off hair as well as they could, and packed the single open wound across her back with a healing balm that brought much comfort, wrapped her torso with dressings to protect it, and clothed her nicely in the finest of silk tunics, an undergarment in public or a general spaces household, but suitable by itself for wear in the intimate women’s quarters of a household. The Queen watched, too, as she was taken to one of the rooms, and on the bed, given tisanes of herbs and spices to help her recover her strength, and fed a light meal of fruit, and bread spread with fish-paste.

In the meanwhile, a comfortable chair had been brought for the Queen, and she settled into it, still watching Elaena intensely.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Elaena used the more formal honorific in Valyrian.

“Grace,” Daenerys answered idly, correcting her. “You will not worship me with such exalted titles. The one God has certainly made His presence known in the world, or else I would not be here.”

“The Lord of Light raised you? The rumours, they’re all true?”

“They are all true,” Kinvara at last interjected. “She is Azor Ahai, and she will remake the world, girl, in His image. You have paid a small price in blood, for a crime that should be expunged with fire. I hope you prove wise enough in time to appreciate that such a bargain is only granted because Azor Ahai has need of you, and the Lord of Light grants favours to his chosen. You are needed.”

“I garnered I am needed, for Drogon, yes, that’s what we all thought, but then, I was taken back and…”

“I will not discuss the rumour. Kinvara, Quaithe, if you would please?” Daenerys abruptly got up, and stepped out, leaving Elaena with her lips pursed, and a rather sad expression upon her face.

“It is no fault of your’s, but it still grievously hurts Her Grace’s heart,” the wooden-masked woman of Asshai began, and then allowed Kinvara to speak.

“She has been brought back, only for so long as the Lord of Light has need of her” remarked the Red Priestess. “It is an honour and a privilege, to serve the Lord in this way. But, I fear there is little joy in being brought back into such a life. You lose much of yourself along the way. She told you, she was sold to the Dothraki. She cannot even remember what her husband looked like. All her memories are vague and faint, save for the final weeks of her first life. Those, she remembers all too well, the betrayals and the lies by those who claimed to be her friends and allies. The treason of the man who pretended to love her. Those memories haunt her endlessly…..” She was silent for a while, before continuing. “She no longer experiences life as we do. It is the fire of the Lord that sustains her.”

Elaena shivered, and blanched. It seemed an awful existence, worse than she could care to imagine. A life that was not quite a life.

Kinvara read her well, an arch expression as she turned away with a shrug. “Perhaps you think me cruel to have restored her to such an existence. I do the will of the Lord of Light, that is all. He has need of her. Once she has fulfilled his purposes, he will grant her the true death that she craves. The servants of the Many-Faced God believe death to be a gift. In that at least, they are correct.”

“I had hoped that Her Grace would teach me,” Elaena admitted. “We are Targaryen of old blood, but long has our line resided in Volantis and been of this city.”

“Even before, she did not know much of her family. She was more of an exile than your ancestress Princess Saera, for Princess Saera had the wealth and power to bequeath to her family all the books of Old Valyria that it pleased her to bequeath,” Quaithe again spoke without preamble. “Your function, however, girl, is to be her Sword.”

“Drogon.” Elaena looked to the two. “Why, then, can she not fly Drogon herself? What stands between them?”

“There are two ways that a Dragon will follow another being,” Quaithe answered. “A bond of family, and a bond of a rider. Even in this state, Drogon recognises Her Grace as his mother, through the natural bond of his creation on the pyre. It is this way that she commanded all three of her dragons, even when she did not ride them, which was unusual and exceptional in the history of the Dragons of Valyria. However, as a rider, she was Drogon’s rider, specifically. And that bond was severed by death, as the other bond was not. So while the Mother’s will may still be sensed for Drogon, and he will follow her as his mother, she cannot mount him as his rider again. We need someone to lead Drogon in battle, to be the precise weapon the dragons often were not, in Her Grace’s previous campaigns. That will be you, girl.”

Elaena quietly bowed her head. Now she understood her purpose. She also knew better than to quibble. Having found herself in this position, it was best to grasp the nettle tightly. A thirteen year old Volantene girl had still already been educated in a fair measure of politics, and how it was played.

So she raised her head and smiled. “Honoured Kinvara, would you instruct me on the Faith of the Lord of Light?”

Whatever Kinvara thought of it, she clearly leapt at the chance. “Of course, Elaena.”

With a slight shake of her head, Quaithe turned away.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In Tyrion’s long career, which had involved serving a variety of rulers in varying positions, some well, and some badly, he had never been in quite this position. Meetings were an opportunity to plan, to discuss possible actions, to curry favour, to receive the instructions of a Lord or King.

When it came to Bran the Broken, meetings were something else entirely. He was rolled in before his Small Council. Already, Yara Greyjoy had departed for the Iron Islands. The Prince of Dorne, had returned to Dorne. The world was starting to settle down and return to what it had been.

In theory. As a practical matter, Bran showed up—and asked about Drogon. “Have you received any evidence of the Dragon’s position yet?”

It had been this way through each meeting they had had so far. Tyrion, busy with his reconstruction plans for King’s Landing, including the construction of new brothels (out of the kindness of his heart, he had taken several whores who didn’t have brothels into residence in the Tower of the Hand. The nobility and the Church were too broken to really muster complaints about such things at the moment, so it was nice to take advantage of it while the opening lasted), had generally ignored the issue as not within the scope of his competency. Bran was interested in it for some mystical reason linked to his powers, and certainly it would solve itself eventually. After all, most of the mystical prophecies and words and predictions had failed so far. The Night’s King was easily defeated.

“Now we have other matters to attend to,” Bran said after a moment, after he had taken the report like usual. “My Hand. I have written down a list of names…” He handed them over. “These are those who pose a threat to Our rule.”

Tyrion stared at the list for a moment. Mostly Septons and Septas, there were also several nobles on the list. Especially in Dorne and the Iron Islands. Yara and the Prince would not be happy about this. Also, _why not, why this information at this time?_ “Your Grace, why … How was this obtained? Are you sure?”

“I have made the determination based on what I have observed of them.”

A chill went through the room, and Tyrion exchanged a glance with Brienne, who was frowning. Davos also went a little stiff, while Sam – was ignoring it. Bronn seemed to care not a whit about it. The Master of Whispers, an apparently soft looking Kingslander boy named Allyron, of no special birth, had been appointed for his connections to Varys. He had delivered the report on Drogon, with no evidence as yet. His eyes, though, gleamed with avarice at the King’s information, just as Varys’ might of.

Tyrion cleared his throat. He felt that his stomach was somewhere close to his loins, for how he felt. _He saw it in their minds. He saw it in their minds._ Perhaps Varys would have, in fact, not appreciated this development after all. The silence from the Hand made Bran look after a moment. “My Hand, will you… Take care of it? That is my expectation.”

_If you don’t, he’ll take care of you. And he’ll be paying far more attention to you than to anyone else. If he wants to see inside your mind, he can do it at will, and you’re the biggest threat, so he’ll look the most, especially if he has the time to look at these other imbeciles and Septons._

Suddenly, Bran’s election as King seemed far more stupid than anything else Tyrion had ever done in his life. He smiled blandly and politely, though. Tyrion was quick-witted enough to realise that, really, as long as he did what Bran wanted, it wasn’t _terrible;_ he would be rich and powerful and have all the women he wanted, and, in fact, if Bran used this ability to secure the realms, so much the better, as it would remove threats to him personally. ‘A rising tide could lift all boats’. Perhaps making Bran King was both the stupidest and the smartest thing he had ever pushed for.

“Of course, Your Grace. I will organise their arrests and interrogations for confessions at once,” Tyrion answered. “Of course, this will have political problems with Dorne and the Iron Islands. Are you aware of any issues with … Yara Greyjoy?”

“At the moment, she is distant to me,” Bran answered, leading Tyrion to wonder what exactly that meant, especially for his apparently omniscient powers. “However, her true intentions will doubtless be resolved soon. If she is loyal, she cannot object to the punishment of treason.”

 _Well, that’s one way to look at it._ Tyrion just wondered how big the _second_ list would be.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After some days of rest, Elaena had been given the finest clothes, and now had sat with Daenerys’ council as she administered justice in the realms. She had asked, very pointedly, for Grey Worm, for Yara, for Daario; for those she still remembered as loyal and faithful to her. Various inquiries were made.

Ultimately, the news from King’s Landing had arrived. “It’s said that after the election of this Three-Eyed Raven,” Kinvara remarked, “that The Greyjoy left the capital quickly with her squadrons, and is sailing back home. I do not know if she would be loyal or disloyal to your cause, Your Grace. I have not yet seen it.”

Daenerys, behind her silver mask, was silent. That she was contemplating the matter, there was no doubt, but what she thought was inscrutable underneath the silver mask. “Send Yara a warning. If she be loyal, she will come, and it will keep her alive by separating her from the Three-Eyed Raven’s reach. Parchment.”

A piece of parchment was presented to her, with ink and quill. She scrawled out a message, with gloved hands that were still steady with the pen in them. “Send the fastest ship in Volantis with this message for the Iron Islands,” she instructed, and then looked squarely to Elaena. “You will find that true friends are very hard to find. I once thought I had found true friends, and discovered many betrayed me. However, it is best to treat all those who have not betrayed me, for now, as if they are true; I will not trust them with power over me, until they have earned it, but if they earn it, I will at last know who is true, and who is not. Nor will I condemn them for the compromises they made when I was not …” She trailed off.

“Well. Young Elaena, you should understand this. It’s best to use force sparingly, but when you do, leave nothing behind. That was my first mistake.”

“Your Grace,” Elaena dipped her head politely. “We may hope…”

“Do not hope. Hope did not serve me well before.” Daenerys’ voice had a haunting, haunted air when she said that, and even Kinvara looked uncomfortable.

However, the Red Priestess had the best rejoinder. “Indeed, do not hope in the Goodness of Man, but have faith in the Goodness of God. He will sift the righteous. Let them come, we will welcome them, and if they do not deserve the welcome, we will deal with them as all traitors must face their fate. Trust is earned by actions.”

“I understand,” Elaena affirmed, those words too intense to let out of her soul. The expression of the Valyrian eyes under the violet mask was redolent, too, with the intensity of the betrayal.

“Well, you may not now, but _you will,_ Elaena. You _will._ ”

Elaena sucked her breath in, and shivered. Sometimes, it seemed as if something of the cold of death had gotten through with Daenerys, and changed her forever, and lingered over those around her. But Kinvara and Quaithe knew no fear of it, and as fearful as she was, Elaena also felt a growing fascination. She wanted to understand the perspective of the Dragon Queen. She wanted to _know._ She even fancied that the Dragon Queen wanted her to know, but whatever tests would satisfy her admission to the Dragon Queen’s confidence, she had not yet passed, nor did she even have the faintest idea of what they were.

“I will not fail your expectations, Your Grace.”

“See that you do not.”


	3. Beginnings are Delicate Time

**Beginnings are a Delicate Time**

From the very first moment, she had realised that she was in _tremendous_ danger, more danger than the storm had ever brought her. More danger than battle had ever brought her. Her life hung by a matter of inches, like she was sailing with the maelstrom on one side and the tempest on the other. The slightest deviation from the true course would tear apart her life in a single heartbeat.

So she had behaved oddly, in ways that terrified her crew. She had bowed down to the crippled King. She had filled her mind with the haze of alcohol and other drugs. She had even ordered the tiniest measure of the Milk of the Poppy. She had kept her mind empty, and dully gone along with events in King’s Landing.

At sea, she had continued the practice. She spoke nothing of her subordination to King Bran the Broken and his Small Council, or why she had given up their independence. She lived in such terrible indolence that the days passed as a haze. Qarl had procured a bevy of whores for her in King’s Landing, and she slept with them regularly, lest she think about anything important at all.

By the kind of natural understanding of a situation which makes a born commander and shipmaster able to see the danger in a situation, and comprehend its order, she had seen the danger she was in. She could not even think about what she needed to do.

So she _did not think._

Ravens would have put the fleet of the Arbor in the path of her small group of ships if she had thought, she was sure. Ravens would have summoned the remaining ships of The Reach or the Westerlands, for a chance to overtake her. Assassins would have been infiltrated to the Iron islands and would be waiting for her. Landings would be made at unexpected points, by written instructions from the King, and her men would not know that he had seen their positions and plans with his own eyes, and then had the Imp draft the final counters to them.

So she drank and whored and drugged herself until after a month, a sesquinavigation of Westeros, she was at Pyke. Her Lords were shocked by her appearance, and angry. But they had been preempted, because, written like a madwoman in a scrawl of a dagger around her cabin, had been the one word that she repeated automatically, drilled into her like a single mnemonic thought surging through induced madness.

“PRIESTS!”

Qarl and Ser Tristifer had summoned every damned Priest of the Drowned God on the Islands. They helped Yara approach, until she shook them off, and placing on the Driftwood Crown and resting her weakened body on a staff of driftwood, she stepped before her Lords, Captains, and Priests. They looked in shock at the woman-king they had given themselves and how emaciated she was.

She whispered the _second_ word she had scrawled across the cabin to Tristifer. He stepped forward and conferred with the priests, his eyes wide. He had thought, after Daenerys, that his Queen would never make such a command. But that single word, in context, could only mean one thing.

The Priests thought it was for the Queen’s health. Certainly the only explanation was that a tumour was taking her life; certainly nothing else could strike her down so. They obliged the command, as Yara leaned against her staff, and thought, distantly, of beautiful Daenerys, who had challenged her to be more than any holder of the Seastone Chair before. Daenerys, who would be horrified at what was happening right now, and furious.

Daenerys, dead, without even a body to bury, by the connivance of the monster.

Yara hung on her staff, and watched the thralls—battle captives from the North, as most of the thralls they currently held were--being dragged into the surf, where their necks were slit, and their bodies were given to the Drowned God, while their blood rolled and licked the shore amidst the waves, until they were all turned a frothing, hideous red. Again, and again. Thrall after thrall. The priests, all the priests of the island, were busy that day. The massacre was great. Dozens, hundreds, Yara’s head throbbed, her vision threatened to black out on her from the aftereffects of the drugs, she couldn’t be exactly sure.

But sacrifice them they did, and Yara forced herself, with Qarl helping, to hobble down to the water, and plunge into the frothing red surf. But before the priests could raise a prayer for her, she instead raised her staff.

“What is dead may never die,” she whispered, and added, softly, “protect your children.” Before turning back to stand in the roiling, red surf, and face the notables of her harsh Kingdom.

While she looked so weak, her voice had not weakened even a rush. “LORDS, CAPTAINS, DROWNED MEN, IRONBORN! A terrible new power is in the Greenlands. It is nothing less than the Devil-Lord of the North, the Raven of Ravens, the monster which commands the souls and minds of men! I have feigned madness in King’s Landing and on all of this voyage home, so that I could survive and bring you this warning! We would all be his slaves until the hour of death, and denied our seas as our home, unless we stand fast against him! My Faithful, I warn you – I needed you all together, because I need us INSTANTLY at arms! The only protection this speech and our plans laid this day have against his mind is that which the Drowned God provides us! God knows, I have said we will raid no more, but as in the days of old, I have laid the blood of thralls in the surf because he has the power to know what we think when we think it, to know what we plan when we plan it, to know our dispositions before battle, to know our hearts before we choose—the Three-Eyed Raven! That is the monster they have made King!”

“My prayer before Our Lord today is only that he keep us fast so that we may force the servants of the Raven to meet us iron-for-iron, on seas of our choosing! He can see us our thoughts and deeds, but he cannot cause our strength to falter. I want the fleet ready to sail—we will strike first! He thinks our position is hopeless, because he can see our futures and know our minds. But what is dead may never die!”

The roar swept over them, and the horror of desperation slowly melted from Yara’s bones. Slowly, she felt a rising confidence that, at least, she would die on a ship, in battle. They would surround her, and not let a single assassin through. She would have to regain her strength quickly, but she had gained it once, and she was still a young enough woman to recover from what she had done, to deny the Raven the pleasure of having her mind for its own.

She walked under her own volition to Pyke, where a massive fire was roaring in the main hall, to warm her feet close by the fire in the Great Keep. Yara sank into the great chair, which consumed her, and her bare feet were dried by the fire, still sticking with saltwater that had mingled with the blood of sacrifices.

Yara regretted it. She wanted to be the Queen that Daenerys had hoped she would be; she still had a crush for the girl, really. Terrifying, brilliant, brave, dangerous, and yet so soft, small, and vulnerable, too. With a brilliant smile and a way of motivating utter loyalty—that was the woman she had gladly allied herself to. Daenerys would have hated human sacrifice with all of her heart and soul, and hated Yara for it.

But Yara didn’t have dragons. She was facing a nightmare, a monster which could read the thoughts of men the moment they had them. Only if the Drowned God was with them, could her nation survive, and be free. She had no choice. They would hate her for centuries, and speak black legends of her around half the globe, but if she kept her oaths to her people, and kept them free of that monster, then she would still account it a life well-lived. So she had turned the surf red with sacrifice.

Yara went to sleep that night in the chair, covered in furs, before the roaring fire. A double guard of her most loyal men were posted all around, even here in her own halls. The next morning when she awoke, she felt truly awful, in every respect. Not all the healing tisanes of her Maester seemed to make the slightest dint on the raging headache she had, though Tristifer rubbing her scalp brought a measure of relief.

Then a messenger came from the harbour, dressed in clothes of the east. He was thoroughly searched, and searched, and searched again. He was presented to the suspicious Queen, and Tristifer handled the message himself, taking it from him to Yara. She opened it, and with pale and trembling hands, read the contents, and read the message again, and then again.

She sank back in the heavy old wooden chair, shaking. _What is dead may never die._

“As soon as the fleet is ready,” she rasped, suddenly feeling hoarse, “We will sail for Volantis. Every ship, Ser Tristifer. Every ship.”

In the most perverse way imaginable, her prayers had been answered. She had broken her faith to the Dragon Queen, and somehow, been rewarded with the discovery that the Dragon Queen was still alive. Held her handwriting in her hands. Yara sank back down under her blankets, and called for food. If it saved her people from that monster, it did not matter. Nothing could. She laughed, and hidden under the blankets, even cried a little, and whispered, “never again.” The guilt would stay with her for a long time, but she would never be quite sure if she would have survived to feel it, if she hadn’t ordered that cruel deed out of desperation on that windswept day, when standing before the very omniscient eye of evil itself, and for the want of anything else to do.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some twelve weeks after the events that had unfolded in Volantis and with the King still undecided on the loyalty of Yara Greyjoy, Tyrion was doing his utmost to keep the people of Kings Landing in a state of abject obedience. This was difficult, because the people of the city had much to be unhappy about, and the new regime was having a great deal of difficulty meeting their human wants. Starvation and homelessness were rife, and so King Brandon’s rule had already started to become unpopular. But unpopularity and instability were another matter entirely, and Tyrion had quickly adapted to the situation he found himself in, and the unique advantages the powers of his King gave to his administration.

Much of the city still lay in ruins, and the work of rebuilding was going very slowly. But, he had moved fast to establish a holding camp, outside the city, for the growing number of political prisoners who threatened the rule of the Three-Eyed Raven. The King had insisted he make this a priority, one that was far more pressing than feeding or sheltering the city’s population. After all, his master could detect which of his subjects held treasonous thoughts, and demanded arrests accordingly.

The second list of suspects had been followed by further lists. Some of those named were marked down for immediate execution, others for detention and interrogation; others still, simply vanished, their families kept in suspense and fear. Not all of those detained had appeared on the King’s lists. The man had made plain to Tyrion and the Master of Whisperers, Allyron, that he expected them to use their initiative in detecting, and arresting, suspects. In turn, they had hired scores of men and women, only too eager to gain the rich rewards on offer to those who denounced their neighbours. Guilt or innocence was in a sense, irrelevant. A climate of fear was needed to keep the population quiescent, and that was an easy task in the current circumstances, when there was no organised opposition to the government, all of it having been destroyed in the wars—Lords, Church, people, all destitute—and the ubiquitous agents of the Hand and the Master of Whisperers could quickly teach the people how to be cowed into passive obedience.

Of course, there were upsides to the entire process which had quickly put an end to any sense of distaste the Hand felt. Tyrion himself took a share of the property of each person who was arrested. And sometimes, took payments from their families to release them (it was not necessary to execute or hold, or disappear, everyone; if the experience of arresting them terrified them, they could be made obedient without additional force. That was another lesson, and one that offered an opportunity for personal riches). The holding camp, located aptly enough at a village called Pity Me, contained almost four thousand inmates. Former adherents of the Dragon Queen, prominent members of the Faith, men and women connected to House Martell or Yara Greyjoy, were especially targeted—even without the King having formally condemned the Greyjoy or the new Prince of Dorne yet, Tyrion felt it was best to make sure they had no supporters in the capital who could open the gates for a sudden descent. Even in such a short space of time, the camp had thus begun to acquire an infamous reputation. He was currently speaking to the camp commander.

“What is this fellow's offence?" he asked the man.

"Insubordination, my Lord, " replied the man. Tyrion nodded, and continued to ask questions about the condemned men and women. Plainly, they had to die, guilty as they were of such crimes as subversion, libelling the King, and shirking labour service. Fools that they were, the Smallfolk failed to see that their hard work was essential to rebuild the city—the corvée was the only way they would ever repair the murderous damage caused by the Dragon Bitch and Drogon. There were a dozen of them, some terrified, some sullen, lined up in front of the scaffold. There was a thin drizzle in the dawn air, in keeping with the sombre nature of the proceedings. One young woman, wearing the remains of a Septa’s robes, was defiant. She spat at him, before saying “There are millions of us, Imp. You can’t hang us all.” A guard casually backhanded her across the face.

“I apologise for that, My Lord,” remarked the commander. “Even now, there are incorrigibles among the prisoners.”

Tyrion nodded again to the commander, who instructed his guards to lead the condemned up onto the scaffold, feeling distant and distracted by the entire affair. Nooses were fastened around their necks. Only then was it his turn to do something. He turned to address the assembled crowd. All the prisoners had been led out to witness the executions. "You are here because you have committed serious offences against his Grace, King Brandon Stark, First of His Name, and against your Motherland. You will work on behalf of your country, until you have redeemed yourselves in the eyes of the King’s Grace. What you are about to witness here today, is not revenge, but justice.”

He then turned back to the scaffold. Each of the prisoners was pushed forward in turn, and slowly choked, most of them pissing themselves as they expired. Tyrion watched until the last of them stopped twitching, and then instructed the commander to dismiss the watching prisoners. Then he turned to the commander, "there are matters which I need to discuss with you."

They trudged down the muddy main street of the camp, towards the commander's quarters. The commander led him into his sitting room. "Wine my Lord?" he enquired.

"Thank you." The room was cold and cheerless. There was a weak fire in the grate, and the obligatory portrait of the King on the wall behind the commander. The All-Seeing Three Eyed Raven, who could detect a traitor by his thoughts alone. Tyrion drank heavily from the cup. When he got back to the Tower of the Hand, there would be plenty more, and all the whores he could want, too. Being Hand in an age when the faith was broken had its advantages. _Speaking of…_

“Are you a religious man?” he asked the commander.

“I was born and raised in the Faith” the man replied cautiously, perhaps unsure where this conversation was going.

“Yet, I trust you would place your duty to the King’s Grace above any consideration of religion?”

“Of course, my lord”.

“Good. You are aware, I am sure, that King Brandon is not a follower of the Faith. That has led prominent Septons and Septas to denounce him, even to conspire against him.” Tyrion allowed a bit of his old bemusement to colour his voice. The current situation was funny, in the context of all of those Septons and Septas destroying themselves and their stupid, corrupt church now that they had encountered a _real_ power, when their Gods did nothing for them.

“There are dozens in this camp, my Lord. That bitch who insulted you was one. Rest assured my Lord, I hate them as much as you do. I live to serve the King’s Grace.”

“That is well. You will be facing a new influx of prisoners. King Brandon detected a fresh conspiracy. The ringleaders and their adherents have been arrested, and will be sent here in due course.”

“My lord, we have barely sufficient room for those already here. Many of them are diseased. And food is short. Not that I’m complaining,” he added, hurriedly.

“Then you must make room for the new prisoners. Do you take my meaning?”

“Perfectly, my Lord, I assure you, there are no firmer hands than mine. Are you setting me a quota?”

Tyrion nodded. There was no other way to do it, and frankly the Septons and Septas _were_ the biggest threat left at this point. The nobility was broken. “I would suggest another three hundred executions. Choose the most guilty. Know that your diligence will be reported to the King himself.”

The commander nodded. “It shall be, my Lord, as you command.”

“Good. That concludes our business together, for the time being.” Tyrion rose, and the commander accompanied him to the entrance, where a litter awaited him, surrounded by armed guards. For all things were well in hand here at King’s Landing and in the vicinity, they were more concerning further afield. Strange rumours had begun to circulate from the East. Rumours of an unpleasant kind--of dragons being sighted, of slave revolts. Even a wild tale that his former mistress had been restored to life. He would have dismissed that out of hand, once upon a time, but he had known a man who had died, and then been brought back.

That, of course, was Jon Snow, the man he had persuaded to kill Daenerys Targaryen, in order to save his own hide. He, his King, and Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, had had no compunction in exiling the man into the far North, once he had served his purpose. Snow was a broken man, filled with remorse for the murder of his own aunt, and fully aware now that his own family had used, and then betrayed him. With any luck the man would take his own life. Or else, Queen Sansa would send an assassin for him. Privately, she had admitted to Tyrion that she considered him a traitor to the North, as well as a potential threat to her own rule. He doubted if Jon Snow would remain in the land of the living for much longer.

The thought that Daenerys might have returned to life, though, that was the real problem. Snow just proved it was possible. The thought of Daenerys—that chilled him to the marrow. He could expect no mercy if that were true. His betrayal of her had begun the moment they had set foot on Dragonstone, as he gave her one bad piece of advice after another, that cost her armies dear. He had sought to weaken her, leaving her no option but to come to terms with his siblings. Well, his siblings had still died, in any event, but he at least, had prospered. No, there was one man alone who could tell him if the rumours were well-founded. His own King, the Three Eyed Raven. He would raise the issue with him today, at the meeting of the Small Council.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the message had come from Volantis, Daario had placed Meereen under the charge of the most reliable of the men who had helped him hold it for the past year. He had no idea why his Queen was in Volantis, all so suddenly, and the contents of the message, while vague, had sounded dire. So he had prepared a force of twenty light frigatas, faster, lighter galleys used for dispatch, and set out with a picked body of the new Lockstep Legions he had formed, from the volunteers from the city’s former slave caste. In his stead, he had left Skahaz "The Shavepate" mo Kandaq behind, trusting the man to act in their shared interests, for while Skahaz was not a pleasant fellow, he had a reliable power-base of patronage among the freed slaves, and so his power was now bound up in their freedom.

As all voyages to Volantis did, the trip involved rounding the great peninsula which had been smashed into an archipelago by the Doom of Valyria. This forced them to stand out far to the south, as they sailed whenever they could, and the oarsmen worked their oars, but now for coin, whenever the wind didn’t favour them. As it was, free men always pulled the oars better than slaves; they were making good time.

It was southwest of Valyria, as they were trying to catch a favourable wind to sail north for the mouth of the Rhoyne, that they encountered a fleet sailing from King’s Landing, comprised of merchant ships. They were hailed, when this squadron sighted the Dragon Queen’s banners over their frigatas; it was Grey Worm, with the remainder of the Unsullied.

Daario had welcomed him aboard, as they both drifted together, with their sails reefed, on the open sea. Grey Worm had explained, bitterly, his voice laced with pain and failure, how he had been unable to prevent Daenerys’ savage betrayal and murder at the hands of Jon Snow. “She was betrayed from the beginning”, the Unsullied commander said. “The Imp, the Spider. I thought at first, they had merely given her bad advice. But, later, the Spider sought to murder her on Dragonstone. She gave him to Drogon, a far kinder death than he merited. The Imp tried to save the Usurper, his sister, before persuading Snow to slay her. He serves the creature in Kings Landing as his Hand, now.”

“As for the Northmen…..” he made a sound of disgust. “They hated us from the outset, even as we risked our lives on their behalf. Missandei…..they treated her as if she were diseased. Not that that stopped them from murdering, robbing, and raping, when the city fell, while blaming the Queen for their own actions. But, Snow was the worst of them.” Daario sank in agony, as Grey Worm laid out the whole sordid tale, but above all, at the thought of this man, loving the woman he loved, taking advantage of their relationship as blood, so attractive to the Valyrian race, and then betraying it and his oaths to slay her.

But then he held the dated letter, and showed it to Grey Worm. They both agreed that the letter merited investigation. Neither one dared voice the hope they felt, after Grey Worm explained the story of Jon Snow himself. Instead, if it was a trick, they agreed to punish those who authored it, and then, the two fleets set out together. Surrounded by the fast frigatas and loaded with Unsullied, the merchant captains—and many of them and their crews were from Driftmark and loyal Dragonmen anyway—took no chances, and obligingly also made their way for Volantis.

After another two weeks of sailing, they arrived at Volantis, almost seven weeks after the fateful day that Drogon had arrived over the city. When Daario saw the banners of the Targaryen flying over the city, and the drums and bells that sounded in salute to his own ships arriving under the same banner, he was overcome with emotion. When they reached dock, and ready crowds of freed slaves provided muscle to haul the ships in and secure the lines, he could see that Grey Worm was similarly emotional.

One did not work a merchant galley, or even a frigata, up river quickly. The authorities in Volantis had plenty of time to prepare. So a herald had arrived from the Black Walls. “The Queen’s Grace will receive you in audience within the Black Walls,” he announced after a slight, precise bow.

“The Queen? Queen Daenerys, Queen of Meereen and the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men?” Daario clarified, just to make sure.

“Her Grace, Daenerys, Queen of Volantis, Meereen, and of the Seven Kingdoms,” the herald agreed after a moment.

Daario staggered in hope; Grey Worm was impacted, deeply, by his sense of shame. But both of them made haste, with the provided carriage moving at a brisk clip. Of course, the inside of the Black Walls of Volantis was a fabulous place. There were fountains everywhere, and baths with steam, and hot water, and cold water, and dry heat; there were public toilets, flushed by continuously running water, and cafés on the corners where ready-made food could be purchased casually to eat on the street, and all the villas had delicate, amazing frescoes, in multiple stories. There were mechanical contraptions of gears which opened and closed the great doors of temples, and powered mechanical menageries of bronze reproductions of strange birds and creatures from Sothyros, making them scream with the hiss of steam; in the houses of the very wealthy, it was even used to lift people from one floor to another of their homes.

For all that, the inner city had a real air of fear. The houses were splendid, and amazing, but they were starting to be noticeably unkempt. Some of these high-born, pure-blood families had managed to hire their servants back at wages, but that meant they were living on reserves. It would last, for a little while, unless they found another way to make their money in the radically changed economy of the city that Daenerys’ conquest had enforced.

At length, they were taken to the palace of one of the Triarchs, which was now the Royal Palace, and presented to her court. It was then that both men could see the shining figure on the throne, the silvered mask, the hair which was still impossibly beautiful, the gowns which were reflected on by the light from above, in black and red. Her advisors were at her side, a Red Priestess, that Kinvara; the woman in the wooden mask from Asshai that Daario had been told stories of, and a young woman of fine Valyrian features, more a girl, really.

It was with thanks in his heart that he knelt.

“Approach, Lord Daario,” Daenerys’ voice echoed in the great chamber, and it sounded both a bit distant, which worried him, and still also a bit warm. He rose, approached the customary distance, and knelt again. Grey Worm remained behind.

“Daario, I made you my Viceroy of Meereen, and you have kept the faith. Your reports show the city well-governed, and those who disputed your talent are obviously shown to be false, or speaking from base pretences. You have earned high rank. And you answered you my call. I have confidence, that in the end, it was you who were loyal, when so many others betrayed me. You will command my armies, and we will make the world tremble.”

“I will follow you to the end of the world, My Queen,” he answered, feeling almost out of his own body as he did.

“Rise, and take your place with my advisors at my side.”

She looked to Grey Worm now. “Grey Worm, approach.”

Daario watched him rise, and step forward, and kneel again, as he approached, and looked at Daenerys, amazed both at the detail on the fine silver mask, meant to look as an angelic imitation in silver of a perfect young woman’s face, while still wondering, with a hint of fear, at what it hid.

When he knelt again, she spoke. “Grey Worm, you did your best. You kept the faith. You fought hard for me as one of my loyals. I violated your own recommendations, and let that man, that traitor, close to me. The fault is not with you. Had I followed your instincts and recommendations, I would not have made myself vulnerable to the Northern schemes. Tell me, however; I have sent for Yara, will she also be loyal?”

“Your Grace, she held fear in her heart of the monster, and hid it well, and bowed to keep her people safe. I do not believe she was disloyal.”

“That is a hard place. Unlike the two of you, she has a nation to see to, and it is gravely threatened. Rise, Grey Worm, and take your place at my side, as the Commander of My Guard. I will not discount your precautions again.”

He rose, and with relief and a burning desire to prove himself, also rejoined her side.

She left them there for a while during the other audiences, and then summoned Daario with her back to her private apartments, leave Grey Worm to meet with the commanders of the Guard that had already been formed for her, to make arrangements for the rotation of the watch. The remaining Unsullied would become the field guard.

Daario was surprised by the presence of the young Valyrian girl, but Daenerys introduced her. “Lady Elaena, a descendant of Saera Targaryen.”

The former mercenary commander started for a moment, but began to immediately suspect why she was there. Daenerys had known she was barren for years. Had this brush with death, then, made her think of the succession?

“My Lord,” Elaena offered with a polite curtsy.

“Gratified, likewise…” Daario bowed and kissed her hands.

“Leave us please, Lady Elaena,” Daenerys instructed, which left them alone, the guards just outside, inside of Daenerys’ chambers.

“Gods,” Daario whispered. “What did they do to you, Daenerys?”

“They killed me,” she answered hoarsely, with dreadful anguish layered into her voice. “It was awful, and I can’t describe it; but Kinvara has brought me back, to serve the cause of freedom. To complete breaking the wheel. To finish my work. I will have _revenge,_ and the _best_ revenge will be breaking the wheel the whole world over!”

“I thought I’d spend my life fighting, and if that’s what it still comes to, but I spend it fighting for you, a fair enough trade, My Queen,” he answered, and gently took and kissed her hands. “What…”

“I could barely remember you until you came close. The memories came flooding back,” Daenerys explained, leaning close into Daario. “The mask is… It’s because I’m not whole, Daario. They brought me back as well as they could, but it’s not… Perfect.”

Daario’s heart missed a beat, but he held Daenerys’ hands fiercely, but gently, seeing now how emaciated they were, and shivering, with the unnatural fear of a man confronted with powers beyond his ken.

Daenerys shook her hands loose from his hand, and gently reached up to undo the straps on the silvered mask, to take it off, to set it aside. The black rings around her eyes, the emaciated character of her face, the way the flesh, pasty white, hung taut to her skull.

Perhaps the most manful thing Daario had ever done in his life was to refuse to betray even a single shudder, and he was proud of himself for it. Daenerys did not deserve a shudder.

In the very soft voice of a girl left very alone, she asked, simply, “will you kiss me, so that I can remember, what it’s like to be loved?”

Daario kissed her. “I’ll do more than that. I’ll love you.” Then he kissed her again. He would _not_ abandon his Queen, not now. Not ever. But keeping it together, through what he saw had been done to her and the shell of the vibrant and beautiful woman she was, was indeed one of the hardest things he had ever done.

And he burned with hate at those who had done it to her.

And he was so thankful that he could still bring her a measure of happiness.


	4. Loyalties

The opportunity to ask the King about the rumours came soon enough, on another day in King’s Landing, where, if anything, the partial burning of the city had reduced the incidence of disease. Tyrion waddled into the Small Council Chamber, to find he was the last. “Your Grace, I apologise for my tardiness,” he said to the man in the wheelchair. In truth, he had had a most disturbing experience on the way to the meeting. The King gave an enigmatic smile.

“I appreciate the work which you have been carrying out on behalf of the Realm. I note and approve your zeal in pursuing traitors and subversives,” The King answered, in a distant voice that made him wonder if this was really Bran Stark, or someone else entirely.

Tyrion heard Brienne, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, loudly clear her throat, attracting the attention of the gathering. “Is Your Grace aware” she asked “that men and women are being kidnapped and killed, throughout the city and its surrounds?” She looked uncharacteristically nervous.

There was a tense silence _. Stupid woman, do you truly imagine that our lord and master could be unaware? That any of us are unaware? Do you think the camp at Pity Me just sprung up out of the ground by itself?_ Worse still, a smart person would know the truth, _and_ know that it was best not spoken aloud. Brienne was clearly enough of a lackwit as to not realise either.

The Three-Eyed Raven looked piercingly at his Lord Commander. She met his gaze. Then, in a measured tone, he spoke. “Naturally, I am aware of this. It is by my order that these things happen.”

“They’re being put to death without trial, your Grace,” Brienne’s voice was cool.

“Why would trials be necessary? I can sense their guilt. Their thoughts are treasonous.”

“So, people are being killed simply for what they think, not what they do.”

“Treason begins with bad thoughts” interjected Tyrion. He had no interest in letting Brienne continue this line of thought. “Bad thoughts lead to bad actions. Better we should apprehend traitors before the Realm suffers the consequences of their actions.”

“His Grace is right--The Lord Hand is right,” commented Grand Maester Tarly. “We are fortunate indeed to possess a king with such insight into mens’ souls.”

“Have a care, Lord Commander” murmured the King and Raven, “lest you yourself should stray into improper thought.” She looked embarrassed, but said nothing.

Bronn spoke up, his face evidencing a nasty sense of bemusement. “The way I see it, the more frightened we keep the people, the easier it is for his Grace to govern. The strong do what they will, the weak do what they must. Nobody will dare mess with a government like this. We don’t have to worry about any rebellions as long as we strike first.” Tyrion saw the King nod approvingly.

“To business” remarked the King. “Lord Bronn, how goes recruitment?”

“Well, your Grace. I’ve recruited over eight thousand; former Gold Cloaks, Lannister solders, sellswords, masterless men, all keen to serve your Grace. More than sufficient to keep order in the city. I’ve thought of a name you might like for them, “The Raven’s Claws”. Vicious bastards, every one. With the confiscations, we’ve got enough coin to pay them. I’ve found a good man to lead them, Urswyck, a former sellsword. We will give them land, exempt from the authority of the nobles that remain, and answerable only to Your Grace. That will create a self-sustaining system.”

“Good. As you are aware, I have exposed a conspiracy among the upper ranks of the Faith. The treason of these men and women renders their families unreliable. They must be placed under surveillance. Of course, I can do much of this work myself, but I shall require your assistance,” he nodded at Tyrion and Allyron. “I can survey anyone I choose. But, I cannot survey everyone at once. And of course, there will be those who have not yet given grounds for suspicion, yet who are a danger to the Realm. That is where your work is essential.”

“Of course your Grace” Allyron nodded.

_Interesting. He has never been so frank about the extent, and limitations of his powers, before._

“Lord Allyron, my dear sister in the North is forming her own Inquisition on my recommendation. I expect you to establish close links with that organisation. A traitor to either one of us is a traitor to both.

“Of course, your Grace” Allyron nodded again.

That had been enough. Tyrion could not wait to speak about his own business. “Speaking of threats to the Realm, your Grace...” He began.

“Go on.”

“I’ve heard disturbing rumours from the East” Tyrion continued. “Stories that the Targaryen Whore has been restored to life. I’d dismiss all this as travellers’ tales, but, we all know a man who returned from the dead. I’ve seen the dead raised by the Night King.” There was a sharp intake of breath, around the Council table, a look of pure horror on the face of the Grand Maester. This information was not known, save to the King, of course.

The Raven wasted no time assuaging the concerns of his councillors. “The rumours are correct. I have learned that Drogon bore her body to Volantis. I do not know, but I can surmise, that the Red Priests restored her to life. This was the reason for my concern over Drogon.”

“Your Grace does not know for certain?” asked Tyrion, carefully, knowing it would reveal more about His Grace’s powers than he might care to.

Bran was expressionless as he answered. “There are dark powers in the East. The demon R’hllor, the strange gods of Asshai. They cast a shadow over my vision of events in Essos. What conclusions do you draw from this news, Lord Tyrion? Assume the worst.”

“She must be destroyed, utterly. She threatens the world.”

“Yet, you served her as Hand, Lord Tyrion,” remarked Ser Davos Seaworth.

“I never truly served her, as his Grace is aware” he replied indignantly. “I gained her confidence, but my loyalty has always been to House Stark.” He fancied he saw a fleeting flash of disgust on the faces of Brienne and Ser Davos, and contemptuously ignored it. _Of course they would care about such things. She was a monster._ There were more pressing questions, anyway. “Could we hire a Faceless Man?”

“You could enquire” remarked the King, “but I fear we have insufficient funds. They may in any case sympathise with her misguided efforts to eliminate slavery in the East. They were founded by escaped slaves, you may recall. In any case, the price for a Queen, even a deposed one, will exceed our finances until the realm has recovered.” The King was clearly more aware of financial matters than his Master of Coin, who was essentially the Tax Farmer-General of the realm, but perhaps he liked it that way.

The discussion continued, as Tyrion thought back on the encounter that had happened in the morning, and that had disturbed him so much. He had been reading in his litter, as they processed up the Street of Silk—enjoying that the city now smelled much better, with the chance to do urban renewal after the fires. There was a commotion outside, and they had come to a halt. A young beggar had accosted them, a girl, caked in dirt (some things among the commoners would never change).

One of his guards gave her the end of his boot, sending her sprawling in the filth. She got up, staring at him intently. There was something about her gaze that drew his attention. He saw her pupils dilate, until her eyes were black, and then she spoke, in a voice deep and low, not the voice of a young girl.

“You fear me, Lord Tyrion? So you should. All you who are vile. Would you like to know how you will die? The sacred time is near. Beware the dragon. Behold her reborn from death. Beware the descendant of a whore. She will come for you. She will come, and she will scour you from the earth. She will bring your world to an end.”

“Get away from me, your urchin” he snarled. A guard swung his whip at her, even as she scampered away. Who had spoken to him? The Red God, one of his priests, a sorcerer? He switched his attention back to the meeting, quickly deciding to pay it no more attention. He believed the power behind the girl was real—but so was the power behind the King. And the King was giving him instructions. The same as he always gave him. More arrests, more repression, more surveillance.

“Your will, Sire” he replied.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the first time that Drogon had ever borne a saddle. The books containing the detailed instructions for making and fitting it had been in the library of Elaena’s family. It was practical, at Daenerys’ insistence, because there were no time for baubles and finery, and it was for fighting. But no expense had been spared in making it. All the finest iron-forges in the city had employed their blacksmiths; one did not make a dragon saddle out of anything iron, and a single rare fibre said to have once come from Valyria, which was exquisitely expensive and hard to work, and had dark legends associated with it. This was the only padding.

The same work had provided the first suit of armour for Elaena. It would not be the first. It was the first dragonrider’s suit made in centuries, and even longer, here in Volantis. Specially padded, with layers of the same strange fabric, it was meant to cushion the worst blows, and never to burn, to keep one alive through a whiff of dragon’s flame. Every inch of the body was completely covered in metal. Special finely polished crystals were used to cover even the visor, to protect the eyes, with a second outer metal visor that could be closed over them in turn, if it became necessary, and one had the chance. The links to the chains were forged of Valyrian steel, salvaged from older suits found in the armoury within the Black Walls.

Daenerys had helped Elaena fit it, though she had mostly just served to help keep Drogon calm while this was work was done. “We will fly tomorrow,” Daenerys had said at last, with confidence, and then they had returned to the Palace from the large interior park, where Drogon was now chained down for the safety of the city.

Elaena imagined her Queen made love to her Daario that night. Elaena had figured out quickly from his return that they had become lovers, and Lord Daario was inordinately defensive of the Queen, but had slowly been won over to being kind to her, though he seemed stressed. It was said that, at night, the Queen retired to her private chambers; and even Daario did not sleep with her, and only Kinvara and Quaithe could visit her there.

The Saerganyon girl decided that she didn’t really need to know what the Queen thought of when she was alone.

The next day, she was served her breakfast with the other Officers of State. The Queen was never present. Then she was dressed in her unarmoured flying rig, which included chains crossed through outer layers of leather to support comfortable flying, in the style of a dress. When they met, the Queen, in her silver mask, was similarly attired.

“You are ready, Elaena?”

The young woman could _feel_ the anticipation in her voice, perhaps as vibrant and alive as she had yet known Daenerys.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Elaena curtsied, and then fell in at the Queen’s side, and slightly behind, as she ought. Daenerys started off without further comment, and guarded by Unsullied from the fleet, they made their way quickly toward the park, and Drogon. A bright sun in lovely rays of orange and lush purple was marking the dawn, dispelling the dew along the river.

When they arrived at the perimeter, that the people of the city were banned from passing through for their own safety, they paused for a moment. Drogon, great and black, Balerion Reborn, snorted and lifted his head with the gentleness of recognising his mother. With their riding gloves on, Daenerys extended her hand to Elaena. “Help me to him,” her voice instructed, with soft longing.

Elaena took the honour of the Queen’s hand, and led her across the somewhat singed grass.

“Courage, Elaena. You _are_ a Dragonrider now.”

She couldn’t help herself; she grinned to the Queen. “Of course, Your Grace, we’ll ride together.”

It brought a faint ring of laughter from Daenerys. Hand in hand, they made the final lunge for the chains, and then hauled themselves up as Drogon obligingly descended his neck to the ground. They moved as one, and settled in to the settle, hooking their chains to the ones linked around the saddle, and Elaena, unfurling her rider’s whip. But Drogon needed no guidance for the sentiment felt by mother and rider alike to take to the air.

Daenerys laughed, in triumph and tragedy, with pain and happiness in her voice, that she was flying again, as the powerful legs of the great _Zaldrizes_ drove him into the air over the latest city she had conquered, one whose population, in the main of its impoverished former slaves, welcomed her far more heartily than the city of her ancestors.

Swinging and spinning through the air, the great beats of huge, leathery wings carried them higher and higher into the air. Many of the people of the city came out at the news that their Queen had taken flight with Drogon, to witness this great day for themselves.

Daenerys leaned into Elaena from behind, her hands lightly looped around the girl’s hips. The wind blew strong upon them. It was an east wind, rare in this parts, and it was hot and dry, and pleasant, at least at this altitude. They were still climbing, as they headed into the wind toward the east, and left the city behind them. Valyria was there, to the southeast.

“Are you not thankful?” Daenerys asked.

“I would trade this for nothing, Your Grace,” she laughed.

“Good.” The cool silver of the mask pressed against her from behind. “It means you are a Targaryen, you know. The blood flows in your family. It’s what really matters. Not legitimacy of birth, not appearance, but _this._ They say, during the Dance, that there was a girl named Nettles, from Dragonstone. She was the bastard daughter of a Prince, and Summer Islander. Dark skinned and curly haired. She flew the dragon sheepstealer, claimed her fair and well. She was more of a Dragonrider than anyone of Valyrian features who cannot do the same. She was a Targaryen.”

Daenerys’ hold on her abruptly tightened, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “But even another Targaryen can betray me.”

“Jon Snow. I’ve heard Lord Daario mutter his name,” Elaena hissed, over the whistle of the wind. The world unfolded like the perfect map below them. No wonder that Valyrian maps were so fine.

“My nephew. My closest living blood. If he can betray me, anyone can betray me. Deeds, Elaena, deeds.”

Elaena shivered. Those hands, that voice, seemed impossibly intense, even here in the air. “Daario,” the Queen continued, “Repaired to my side without hesitation. Grey Worm came to me with his ships and men, begging forgiveness. I will soon see Yara’s mettle, and that of Dorne. You – Here we are on Drogon. What would you do?”

They were still rising, and a sharp blast from a gust of cold air took Elaena’s breath away, but she rallied. “I’ll break thrones for you, Your Grace. That’s what a Dragonlord does.”

The girl could _feel,_ rather than see, the smile. “Dive.” Daenerys instructed her. “Tell Drogon… To dive.”

The chains pressed on horns, the whip snapped. A moment later, they were plunging through the air, whistling past them too loudly to hear anything, ominous in its own right. The chains held them down to the saddle. The ground spun up lazily as Drogon delighted in the move.

“When shall we pull up, Your Grace?”

“I ordered you to dive, not to pull up,” Daenerys answered.

Elaena paled, and leaned down into the saddle. Daenerys was still pressed tightly to her, and she took reassurance from the Queen’s warmth, even as the ground began to loom up ominously before Drogon. She wanted to open her mouth to scream, or to ask again, but she remembered the conversation, oh yes she did: The Queen wanted deeds. And she was reassured that Daenerys, surely, did not want to experience death twice. She was warm, and even tender, even in the heavy riding clothes.

The dusty yellow-brown grass east of Volantis, the hills with dirt visible on the flanks, the rolling terrain, and the sharp defiles of the eroded hills as the water descended in rivulets to the low valley-floors which fed into the great, open, flat terrain of the Rhoyne to the west, all of it loomed up and consumed her vision, until she could see nothing else of the world.

Then Drogon roared, and reared back, and with his wings beating powerfully, skimmed over the hills east of Volantis, and the sky returned to Elaena’s sight. The Queen was laughing, and Elaena laughed with her.

“Trust Drogon!” Daenerys laughed. “As long as you are mine, Elaena, you can trust Drogon! He will never let you down. He did not let me down, he will not let _us_ down.” Her silver masked face looked down Drogon’s length, to his great face ahead of them, the wings beating to the side. “Let’s cut back over the ocean. I should like a sea-breeze now, won’t that be nice?”

“Your Grace!” Elaena shot her an old Valyrian salute before guiding the dragon about to the right and the south, briefly looking to the southeast—to an imagined somewhere beyond the sea which was Valyria, old, doomed Valyria. This land to the northwest, these lands of Volantis, they had known the beat of dragon wings for so long, and perhaps would finally know them again, permanently.

Behind her, Daenerys seemed comfortable, her silver mask shining in the sun.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Davos waited in the gloom. The cavern was damp, smelling of the sea, which filled it twice daily. He had an hour, before the tide returned. A smugglers’ haunt for centuries, it lay deep beneath the city. A rough passage, hewn through the living rock, led up to Kings Landing. Once, the passage had been hewed at the behest of Maegor, perhaps supervised by his mother, the formidable Visenya Targaryen. His wife, the ruthless Tyanna of the Tower, perhaps walked those passages where only the occasional mark hinted at their origins. Davos could imagine, from the stories his bards had sung in happier times of service to Stannis, that other evil had been brought in them too, perhaps during the Dance. The same cave he had brought Tyrion and his brother too, in the past. He cursed himself inwardly for his folly, but how could have known? Of course, given the choice, he'd sooner serve Maegor now over what he was faced with. Then he at last heard footsteps approach, hoping it was his companion, and not an assassin sent by the thing that ruled the city.

“Ser Davos?” whispered Brienne. She was ready for a fight, but a good Lord Commander always should be.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and emerged from behind the rock that had hidden him. ”Lord Commander. “ He’d always thought of her as fearless. Now for the first time, he could see that she looked frightened. As frightened as he was.

”I can guess your reasons for wanting to meet here. But, even now, he could be watching us,” she warned.

”He could. But I’m an old man now. I’ve seen more evil than I care to. I’ll take that chance. How did it come to this, Brienne? Whatever it is that rules us, that's not Brandon Stark. Something has taken over his body. The Night King? A demon? Some angry old God? I just don’t know.”

”That’s treason, Davos. We gave him our oaths.”

”Like Jaime Lannister gave his oath to the Mad King?” She had no answer to that, and Davos continued. “You heard what he said. Men and women are being murdered, just because of their thoughts. And, by all accounts, things are getting as bad up North. That girl you rescued from the Boltons? She’s gone for good. That’s one cold, hard, murderous bitch that rules Winterfell. We were fools to turn on the Dragon Queen. And, we’ll get no mercy from her, you can be sure, when she comes back. Not that we deserve any.”

“She burned this city, Davos.”

”Huh, you weren’t there. It suited us all to pin the blame on her. None of us has clean hands. The Northmen didn’t march a thousand miles South to take prisoners. They murdered and raped their way across the city. They had Ned Stark and the Red Wedding to avenge. As for the rest, that little fucker and the Spider wanted to starve the population out. I've known hunger, Brienne. I wouldn't wish that death on a dog. Don’t think that any one of them gave a toss for the people of this city. What the Queen did was awful, but let’s not kid ourselves that anyone else would have done different. She gave Cersei the chance to surrender and save her life and the lives of her people, and that cunt murdered her best friend in front of her.”

”Lord Tyrion was betraying her, too” replied Brienne. “He boasted of it in the meeting. What a filthy business. I had no love for Daenerys Targaryen, but what a creature he is! Murdering his own father, and his lover! Worming his way into the Dragon Queen's confidence, before betraying her! Now, he's growing rich on the backs of those he arrests!"

“Never trust a Lannister. Jaime might have been different, but the Imp, he's worse than his sister or father ever were. And as for the Spider, he was selling her out, too.. I found out later, he tried to poison her.” Brienne gave a sound of disgust. “A kitchen girl confessed it to me, he bribed her to put Tears of Lys in her food. I've no doubt Sansa Stark was up to her neck in it, too.“

So, what do we do, Davos? I’m a soldier, not a politician. I believed in Renly. I believed in Jaime. I believed in the Starks.” She sighed. “I’ve made some terrible choices, haven't I?”

”We all have. I believed in Stannis. He went and burned his daughter. These are the times. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Leave. Sail East. Get down on my hands and knees to the true Queen and beg for her forgiveness. If she kills me, so be it. But, I’d like to do the right thing, just once in my life."

What answer could Brienne give to that?

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The War Room of the Triarch’s palace was fixed with permanent relief table-maps, like that of the Palace of Dragonstone. They were a popular style from Valyrian works, with little figurines and other moulded pieces representing information, and little holders for miniature banners, showing the possession of various cities. 

Daenerys sat in a carved wood chair, with entwining dragons along the outside, which perhaps dated back to before the Doom. It was raised to allow her to look over the tables. Everyone else stood, with Elaena close to Grey Worm’s side. 

Daario presented a courtly bow to Daenerys, before he took a long wooden pointer. “I’m ready, Your Grace, at your command.” 

Daenerys leaned to the side in the chair, her mask gleaming. She seemed very intense, but her casualness, a reflection of the way she had once been the People’s Queen in Meereen, made Daario smile. “Let us begin.” 

Daario stepped over to the map table which showed the lands east of the Rhoyne. “We control Meereen, and Volantis. The subordinate cities of Volantis have been forced to do homage to Your Grace, and we have installed garrisons in all of them, and freed their slaves. Between us sit the cities of Mantarys, Elyria, and Tolos, all of Valyrian stock, both the free and the slaves. To take them, we will have to advance our Army down the Demon Road. Peasant stock, of Valyrian origin, inhabits the south-facing valleys of the Painted Mountains, which are too rugged for the Dothraki to have been tempted to raid across. These three cities extract tribute from them, and food, as a means of maintaining what prosperity they have left. Mantarys, of course, is the city of monsters.” 

“Then I will be in good company,” Daenerys cracked a jape; Daario couldn’t help grimace a little in sympathy, though, as it landed close to home. 

“Your Grace…”

“It is no matter, Daario. To be called the Queen of Slaves and Monsters is a great honour for me.” 

Kinvara smiled. “All shall be cleansed in the Light of the Lord, and the least shall be the first. How shall we liberate these cities, Lord Daario?” 

“Well, the problem is, we need to send some of the troops back to Meereen, and thus some of the fleet. But the best way to assault Mantarys… It has a _harbour,_ long disused, on the Sea of Sighs. Once, ships could sail there, but the Antarim River, it’s said, became unnavigable after the Doom. My plan is to portage ships around the rapids and assault Mantarys from the Sea of Sighs. The abandoned wharves and storehouses that our spies say crowd the sea-walls, are much more vulnerable than the walls on the other fronts. So we will advance on them from three directions, but it requires splitting the fleet: The demon road to the west, to the east, and the Sea of Sighs.”

“Do we expect the remaining Ghiscari cities to intervene?” Grey Worm asked.

“Absolutely,” Daario replied grimly. “Yunkai has appointed a governor of Astapor, and has a military alliance with the three Valyrian cities, and New Ghis. Their fleets were destroyed, of course, by Her Grace’s dragons; however, they are rebuilding them.”

“Then it would be best not to split the fleet?” Daenerys asked. “Send our full strength back to the Bay of Dragons, especially since Elyria must be assaulted from the sea?” 

“It would, Your Grace, but then we’d be tied down into a long siege of Mantarys,” Daario explained. “Unless of course we use Drogon to open the walls.”

“I come to bring liberation. We will support the attack to gain a breach, if it can be arranged without imperiling the city, but that is all. However, I fear we discount The Greyjoy. I have not yet abandoned the possibility that my message reached her, and the Three-Eyed Raven could not overcome her. The Ironborn ships would be perfect for a portage, they know this kind of warfare from the Riverlands very well. Elaena, let us not leave this as a matter of uncertainty in our planning.”

The girl jerked and looked up. “Your Grace?” 

“Take Drogon and fly west. Do not land at Lys, for they will try to poison you. Follow the Orange shore, and the Disputed Lands, as far as our guard-posts and towns stretch. Fly south from them a half-day, from each one, until you reach the westernmost, and then return. If you find Yara’s fleet, I will write another message for you to deliver, and you will return at once to Volantis to inform me of it.”

“Your Grace,” Elaena saluted and bowed. “I’m honoured in the confidence.” 

“We will do this right,” Daenerys observed. “We will know our strength before we set out, and we will be fighting to make a nation of free men, from the Disputed Lands to the Khyzai Pass. Lord Daario, Grey Worm, prepare with Kinvara as the representative of the Faith—her units will be involved—two divisions: One that assumes the Ironborn will assault Mantarys from the Sea of Sighs, and one that does not. I wish lists of units and ships for each force in either case. And have Elaena with you when you do. I wish her to learn this craft.”

After the audience, Daario, of course, was permitted to follow Daenerys back to her chambers. In fact, they had made love several more times, but by a sort of unspoken mutual assent, Daenerys had kept her mask on. She preferred it that way, hiding what had been done to her was more comforting, in a way. 

“Why Elaena? Isn’t that a matter of trust?” Daario asked, when they were well and good away. 

“It’s a _trial,_ Daario,” Daenerys explained. “And it is a trial she needs.” 

“Why is that?” 

“I will never have children. You know the Witch’s curse that was laid on me for her people. I will _especially_ never have children now,” she added with her voice growing cold from bitterness creeping in. “I wanted my father’s throne, but I was running, hiding from that reality, that I would be the last Targaryen of _my_ line, when I sought it. I couldn't face it. That was a critical mistake, and it’s not one I will make again. They thought they could end the Dragon by killing me. This time, I am going to make them afraid of my passing. The dragon has no beginning, and no end. We Are.”


	5. Fate and Fortune

Her Grace, Sansa of House Stark, First of Her Name, by the grace of the Old Gods and the New, Queen in the North, Protector of the Realm, and Lady of Winterfell, was a worried woman. She sat in Lord Glover’s solar, alone, save for a pair of bodyguards. Deepwood Motte, the castle of the rebel lord had fallen, two days previously. He had twice refused to come to her aid when called upon; the first time, when she and Jon Snow had marched against the Beast of Bolton, the second when the Army of the Dead had closed in on Winterfell. He had taken his own life, rather than fall into her hands, but his family were captive in the dungeons below.

This then, was the first of her worries. Over fifteen hundred prisoners had been taken when the castle fell, men, women, and children. They were useless mouths, at a time when the North was going hungry. She had assumed that the South would continue to supply foodstuffs from the Reach, only to discover that her brother’s new Lord of Highgarden, Bronn Stokeworth, had other ideas. Oh, he would sell her grain, wine, salted meat, and other necessities, but at three times the former price. Nor did her brother seem minded to intervene. The wellbeing of the Smallfolk was of scant interest to him.

The second worry was Jon Snow. What was the man doing, North of the Wall? Had he worked out yet that she had revealed the truth of his parentage, in order to drive a wedge between the Eastern Whore and her advisors, and to spark a succession battle between the pair of them? Would he return one day, to reclaim the Northern crown from her? The lords of the North were weathervanes. Many would favour him, just because he had a cock. Just as they had when they acclaimed him King, despite it being her who had won the Battle of Winterfell.

She took a sip of wine from the goblet on her desk, before fiddling nervously with the platinum chain of office she wore. There was a knock on the door, and the guards admitted Maester Wolkan.

“Your Grace, Master Gelgil wishes to speak to you.” Gelgil, a wealthy merchant who had accompanied her army on this campaign. He had supplied substantial foodstuffs and fodder, on credit. A debt that must shortly be repaid, if other merchants were to extend her credit in turn.

“Is it important?”

“He assures me it is. He says that he has a confidential proposal to make to you.” Probably no more than a demand for payment, but she might as well listen to him.

“Send him in.” A few moments later, the man entered. He was fat, dressed in furs, a gold chain around his neck. After a bodyguard had searched him, he stepped forward, and performed a graceful court bow to her.

“Be seated” she said.

“Your Grace, forgive me for reminding you, but you have incurred a substantial debt.”

“I’m well aware of that fact. You are no doubt well aware that my treasury is almost empty, that I have soldiers to pay, and fifteen hundred useless mouths to feed. Lord Glover’s lands are forfeit. Once they are sold, then I shall be in a position to pay you. There is little enough of value in this castle.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but your Grace is mistaken. In fact, you have captured a treasure trove.”

“How so.”

He leaned forward, speaking softly, so that only Sansa could hear him. “The people you describe as “useless mouths”. I have contacts across the Narrow Sea who would pay a rare price for them. I could take five hundred, in settlement of your debt to me. As to the rest, I could arrange their sale, in return for…..as little as one tenth of the proceeds of sale, as my commission.”

Her jaw dropped. She spoke quietly in turn. “You mean, sell them as slaves? But, that’s illegal?”

“The will of the Queen has the force of law” the man replied. “In any case, we need not call them such. Perhaps describe them as indentured labourers. They are after all, prisoners. Their labour will be their punishment for rebellion.”

“Including the children?”

“Who would look after the children in the absence of their parents? They would starve. In truth, you would be acting rightly towards these children, by keeping them with their parents. Consider, you cannot easily afford to feed these people. Their new masters will do. You would actually be doing them all a favour, and obtaining rich reward by doing so.” When put like that….

“You want five hundred. What price would you expect the other thousand to fetch?” He named a sum which astonished her. Sufficient to pay the soldiers what they were owed, and to spare.

“Then I agree. Some of my soldiers might have qualms, but I’ll send them back to Winterfell. Foreign sellswords will guard the prisoners, until your friends arrive.”

“An excellent bargain, your Grace.” The man rose, bowed again, and withdrew. Well, that was a big weight off her mind, although she was uncomfortably aware that her parents would have disapproved. Still, their honour had got them killed.

Her mind turned back to the third worry. The raven she had received from her brother, bearing the message “The devil is unchained. Daenerys Targaryen lives.” She had provided Lord Varys with certain ingredients he required, in order to poison the Dragon Queen, while making it appear the work of Queen Cersei. She had thought him a man of devilish subtlety, and yet he had failed utterly. She had feared that her involvement in the plot would be discovered, but to her immense relief, Lord Tyrion had persuaded her half-witted cousin to stab the bitch through the heart. How she rejoiced to learn of the news! Naturally, she had hastened to Kings Landing, to ensure her claim to the North. Privately, she had favoured putting Jon to death. After all, the man had been a traitor to the North, and it was best to tie up loose ends. But, Arya would have killed her, had she suggested such a thing. In the end, she had voted for exile with the rest. She could always send an assassin North, in due course.

But now Daenerys lived! She had seen people rise from the Dead, and her brother had no cause to lie about such a thing, so she did not doubt the truth of the tale. Nor did she doubt that one day, her gaze would be turning West, to exact revenge on those who had first used, and then betrayed her. She trusted that her brother had a plan, but the sooner she found out about it, the better.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
The old man slipped out of the waterfront tavern, and made his way to the docks through the darkness. It was not yet dawn, and few people were about. He had not spent the night in his chambers in the Red Keep. The fewer who knew he was leaving the better. There was a strong smell of salt in the keen air, as he made his way to the ship that would take him to Volantis. Would the Queen welcome him? He had never injured her personally, unlike the others. But, she might just view him as one of the enemy. Still, that was a risk he was willing to run. He had already paid the ship’s captain, but he carried a fat purse full of gold and silver coins. He had sewn gems into the linings of his coat. Enough for him to get by, until he finally met her.

A narrow gangplank led to his ship, illuminated by lanterns in bow and stern. As he began to cross it, he felt a sudden blow to his ribs, that sent him to his knees. He tried to cry out, but could only manage a guttural cough. Staring down, he saw the bolt, half buried in his rib cage. He looked up.

The captain was staring down at him.

“You….” He started to say.

“Spare your breath” replied the man. “You paid for your passage. But, I’m afraid loyalty on my part costs a great deal more than you could ever afford.” He looked at him some more, before giving him a sharp shove with his boot that sent him tumbling off the plank, and into the water. Davos wanted to scream as he went under the surface, but instead, water filled his lungs as the world turned black.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tyrion stared down at the body. The Raven’s Claws had fished it out of the Blackwater. Judging by the state of it, the man had only recently been murdered. The fish had barely started eating the corpse. He stood in the presence of the King, and Lord Allyron, in a small chamber adjoining the Great Hall.

“You have done well, Allyron” remarked the King. Well, that solved this particular mystery, at any rate. The King had plainly suspected the loyalty of the Master of Ships, and had issued the necessary command.

“After your Grace alerted me to his treason, my “Little Birds” tracked him. We discovered that he intended to take ship to Volantis, presumably to join the Dragon Whore. We approached the ship’s captain, and he was only too eager to assist. Not that he had much choice in the matter.”

“Oughtn’t we to silence the captain?” asked Tyrion.

“I considered that” replied Allyron. “But, I think we can put him to better use. Other traitors may approach him. I believe he could be a valuable agent on our behalf.”

“Agreed” said the King, simply. “And, I believe we can put the death of Ser Davos Seaworth to good use as well. Let us say that he was brave, decent, loyal to a fault. Give him a State funeral. Let the world know that he was brutally murdered by the agents of the Dragon Queen. “

“Your Grace, are you certain that you wish the world to know of her return?”

“Quite certain. We wish the people to fear her, even more than they fear us. We alone can protect them from her wroth.” Tyrion was thoughtful for a moment, and then suggested,

“I could provide a couple of scapegoats, from among the prisoners. They would serve as her agents. We could punish them publicly, in exemplary fashion.”

“Quite so,” remarked the King. “I favour crucifixion.” For a moment, even Tyrion baulked before nodding in agreement and declaring “Your will, Sire.”

“And of course, Lord Tyrion, there must be a further round of arrests, in the wake of this atrocity. The Dragon Queen’s agents could not have operated without the support of traitors in our own camp. The internal enemy is always more dangerous than the external foe.”

“Wise words, your Grace, wise words.” Allyron nodded in agreement. What would his father think of him, wondered Tyrion, if he could see him now? From whichever of the Seven hells he dwelt in, he imagined the old man giving a firm nod of approval. _Of all your children, father, I was the only one who did you proud._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been the good turn that Daenerys had been hoping for. The Queen had made it clear that she was confident, but many of her advisors wondered. They doubted the loyalty of Queen Yara, and the Greyjoy’s ability to command her people, or to escape the Three-Eyed Raven of Westeros. However, the Queen was unwavering in her expectation. It was a cold expectation, not borne of a naive sense of hope for Yara, but a confident belief that would follow the messenger, and that the messenger would arrive in time.

Daario was relieved for Daenerys’ sake, when the young Elaena returned with Drogon. She landed the great dragon in the middle of the Black Walls, in the park which had been reserved for him, and dismounted and made haste. Even these few months, which had just seen her fourteenth birthday, had done much to make her a trim and hard young woman, instead of a soft girl of the Black Walls.

She would have a different upbringing than Daenerys, the Mother of Dragons. Elaena held no title; she had no position outside of the Royal authority. She was not allowed to see her family; Daenerys had total control over her upbringing now. The courtiers called her simply “The Sword of the Queen”.

It was a bit of a jape when she was away from Drogon. On Drogon’s back? Oh yes, Daario knew well, there she really was the Queen’s Sword. Daenerys had burned fleets and armies inadequately prepared for the role of being a dragonrider, while Elaena flew in full plate armour with chains lashed to an iron saddle, as the dragonriders of old had.

The girl removed her helmet and knelt before the Queen. “Your Grace, I have sighted the Iron Fleet, bearing two points south-east from Volantis, at a distance of a hundred and twenty leagues. They are led by great ships, with black sails and the yellow standard. Your message was delivered to the deck of the foremost, as you commanded, though I could not tell for sure it was the flagship. The wind was blowing from the west when I sighted them.”

Daenerys raised her hand in the old Valyrian salute, looking like a statue in her silver mask. “You have done well, Elaena. Daario, how long will it be?”

“They will make twenty-five or thirty leagues a day, so they will arrive at the mouth of the Rhoyne in four or five days, Your Grace,” he answered. “If the wind holds.”

“Thank you.” The Queen’s violet eyes shone sharply from behind the mask. “Eat, bathe, rest, then go back to your studies. You will be welcome to witness the arrival of the Ironborn to the city. You have my leave.”

“Your Grace.” Elaena rose and retreated through the entrance into the Queen’s family apartments, as was her prerogative, and her home.

Daenerys rose and stepped out, with a nod to Daario, he followed. “Are you comfortable with the plan for the drive to the east, now, Daario?”

“I am, if the Greyjoy will agree to it. As an allied Queen, she deserves to hear the strategy first.”

Daenerys nodded as she walked, her hands slipping behind her back, leaned forward in thought. “Mmm, yes. I made her that promise so long ago. I must keep it. It is not one of those things that gains me anything to break, and, it is bad for a Prince to break her word when it is not needful. But there is a part of me that feels, intensely, I was too generous in those days, yet … It makes me happy to think of seeing her again, and remembering her face. She was so loyal, and so eager, with a ready, easy confidence.”

“A little bit of a crush, Dany?” Daario couldn’t help but ask with a shake of his head and a soft laugh.

“Maybe once. Now… Well, it all came back between us when you arrived.” She paused, turned, and reached with a gloved hand to grip Daario’s firmly, looking to him with intensity behind that mask. “Without you, I’d have nothing but this cruel path that’s been laid out before me. I don’t know if there’s a single thing I can do to change it, either. We will burn so much to create liberty, and I cannot stop it, and indeed, I must be the author of it.”

“Would you have it any other way?”

“...No.” She acknowledged after a moment, with an echo of the darkness which now, never seemed to leave her voice. Or perhaps it was the flame of the Lord of Light. “They have sown this day, for so many years. Our cause is just… And so we are here.”

The two sat together, in the Queen’s private apartments. Daario held her against himself on a reclining couch in the Valyrian style. While the city was experiencing hardship, there was no famine yet and, a surfeit of luxury goods remained true with the abrupt social revolution, so the Queen could have anything she wanted without troubling her subjects. Still, nothing was requested.

“Still thinking of Yara?” He ventured after a reasonably comfortable silence.

“A bit,” Daenerys answered, and there was a light laugh, a hint, an echo of what might have been in another day and age. “Do you blame me?”

Daario gruffly answered. “Well, I’d think of Yara Greyjoy too, but it would just get me two women wanting to gut me.” He got another laugh, at least, and then added, more seriously: “I won’t consider another woman competition.”

“...Good.” He couldn’t be sure if she was being serious or lighthearted with the firm answer. “However, I don’t know. But I would have never thought of you like this, like I am, until we were together, and it just came back in my mind…”

“Heh. I suppose I’ll take a bit of pride in that.” He reached out to embrace her. “Time and Daario heals all wounds.”

She clung to him, and it seemed needy.

“Do you want anything? A glass of wine, perhaps?”

“All I need is you.”

  
  


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As promised, a few days hence the Ironborn fleet arrived, being of two hundred and sixty-six ships. Only thirty-one remained of the massive heavy fighting ships of the Iron Fleet; the rest were from the levies, who had chosen to accompany their Queen, in the fight for their people, under her command and the urging of the Drowned Men. Their sails flooded the mouth of the Rhoyne nonetheless, and many people came down to see them arrive. Daario rode down with Elaena, taking a troop with him as an escort. They rode out onto the great bridge of Volantis to watch the ships pass underneath it, between the graceful stone arches, to head for the wharves of the city.

“Lord Daario, is it true that all of the Ironborn are madmen who constantly seek Death?” Elaena asked, as they stood on the parapet of the bridge on the downstream side, watching the fleet pass. That the bridge was high enough to let the fleet pass beneath, was one of the great wonders of the world, but to Elaena, growing up in the city of the bridge, it had always been a part of her world. Only the knot of soldiers around them marked them different from the others watching the procession of ships.

Daario laughed. “Their religion encourages them to be such, but in fact, they are men like any others, who know fear and cowardice.”

“The Honoured Kinvara says they are at least monotheists, but their God is a false idol, a devil in the deep,” Elaena murmured. “Still, the Queen esteems her Royal Sister highly, especially now, with her loyalty proved.”

“Dany always did,” Daario whispered. “She came so boldly. I’m thankful that she’s by her side again—it will help her, and she needs it.”

Elaena grew very quiet at the discussion of the Queen’s weaknesses, or suffering. She closed her eyes. “We will tolerate her, as we do not tolerate the polytheists. Such will be the Will of the Queen.”

“It’s hard to govern a realm where all must follow the same faith,” Daario answered.

“I’d say it’s easier,” Elaena shrugged. “I was not raised in His faith, sure, but I will follow Our Lord, for His having granted me this. Best to have a land in perfect harmony. You can see how happy the freedmen are, now.”

Daario snorted. “Aye, if they start that way, lass. If they start that way. There’s nothing harder than making someone change their faith from without, rather than within. You’d best bear that lesson in mind…” He turned. “Ah, I think that’s her. Queen Yara.”

Elaena turned to look as well. There was a figure, somewhat more slight than the others, wearing chainmail and a cloak tied with an iron clasp over it. The figure leaned out over the rail of her ship, balanced half over the water—she had lashed herself to the rigging of the after mast, with a length of cable. Looking ahead, she sometimes turned to her left to cry orders to the tiller. The ship passed smartly below the bridge, under one of the arches close at hand, the masts barely clearing the arch, before she came about on the other side, and headed for shore. Unlike the rest of the crowd, which tried to dash to the other side of the bridge to keep following her progress, Elaena and Daario hung back, knowing that, of course, they would be seeing Queen Yara soon enough.

“There are different breeds of men and women alike; like me, I think, she loves life, but doesn’t fear death,” Daario laughed. “Shame she’s only interested in Queens.”

“And tavern wenches…” Elaena had heard the rumours, and as a Volantene, was no prude. “But you’re the Queen’s, anyhow. I know.”

Daario rolled his eyes. “So even little girls know I’m a bloody appendage now, eh? Come on, lass. Back to the palace with you.” But he was laughing. For the moment, with everything that was coming, the campaign, the Queen’s condition, he did at least have his sense of humour, and it was best to take life as it came to you.

Even if he was worried about the humourless intensity of the woman who had brought his Daenerys back to life, and who now instructed the young swordswoman in religious matters.

  
  


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When she had disembarked her flagship, Yara was met with a horse. She could ride perfectly well, and so she swung her axe up, and swung over the saddle. Still, it had been months, and she was less sure on her mount than she might have been before she punished herself so terribly on the voyage back to the Iron Islands. But now she had twenty-five thousand men with her—for the islands which had been bled so heavily with war, an enormous host, even when it was warriors, sailors and oarsmen all alike.

With Qarl the Maid and Tristifer Botley at her side, as well as a guard of sixty ironborn marching around them, they started through the streets of the outer city. Many people came out to see them, and Yara could quickly tell that Daenerys had been working her way through the city as she had through the Ghiscari cities of Slaver’s Bay. In the months that had passed by, freed slaves had become respectable business owners, and many of the rich had fallen on hard times.

When they passed through the black walls, with the gates left open, it was clear that the revolution was complete. In the end, or at least so far, there had not been a large number of trials, on a criminal basis. However, there were many perfectly silver-haired and violet-eyed folk, born on the wrong side of the sheets, and held out of these walls, or who mingled the curly hair and dusky skin of the Rhoyne with the violet eyes of old Valyria, an especially common appearance which marked a man or woman as a descendant of a slave and a Lord alike. They had all been allowed to levy claims against the wealth of the families they were descended from. In this way, hoarded riches were circulating and keeping the economy afloat, providing new opportunities—at least for now.

With the embargo imposed by the slaving cities, they still faced hard times. Only Braavosi, Meereenese, and Summer Island ships were calling at Volantis at this point. Yara had seen no other traffic heading in when her fleet had made for the mouth of the Rhoyne.

But for the moment, they could put on a brave front. The Triarch’s palace which was now the Royal Palace—was splendid but austere, filled with Targaryen symbols, but not upgraded. Indeed, some of the finery had been sold off and rooms refitted to serve as barracks and planning halls for the campaigns. Yara approved of that—there were soldiers everywhere, both Unsullied and servants of the Lord of Light.

As a foreign Queen whose independence had been recognised by Daenerys, she was shown in at once. There was no waiting. Instead, she was shown in to the audience hall. There was Daario, there was a Red Priestess… A masked woman, who gave an eerie presence. A slip of a Valyrian girl, staying close to the low dais on which there was the Queen’s throne.

The Queen.

Daenerys in her silver mask.

 _That mask, why is she wearing that mask._ But Yara raised her fist in a salute. “My Royal Sister, I am thankful for your resurrection. That which is dead cannot die. My men account you a prodigy, and I had no doubt, when I escaped the power of that monster which occupies the body of Bran Stark, that your letter meant I should at once repair with every one of my ships fit to sail, for Volantis.”

“Yara… Yara Greyjoy,” Daenerys said, with a sigh in her voice, that even in the repose of the mask, carried deep emotion and feeling. “You indeed did right. I feared that you would not come. I feared that he would defeat you, or that your commitment would be lost in the temptation to see an end to the wars. I cannot promise you an end to the wars,” Daenerys added softly. “That, you will not see, here.”

“I’m Ironborn, I can deal with war. Particularly when it means liberating my homeland,” Yara replied. “Don’t think I can rest until that’s done, for he’s surely moved to occupy the Iron Islands. But he would have done it anyway if I hadn’t taken the fleet away. At least by preserving it, we can all return in triumph. That’s what counts. We’ll go back when we’re ready to win this time, right?”

“We will. The east, first. Unite Volantis and Meereen.”

“Fair enough. It’s a sensible objective,” Yara nodded. “Don’t want two isolated halves of what you’re ruling before a great campaign begins. We’ll support it, to the hilt.”

“I renew our alliance. The suffering of your people will be rewarded threefold. Those territories historically your’s will be returned to you, when I return to Westeros.”

“You will return, then?”

“I will. I will not stop until I have put an end to slavery in all the lands I know, and that includes the shameful oppression of the peasants who are my family’s obligation, in the west. There may be no slavery there, but I will complete the reforms my great-grandfather intended. I will not rest, until it is done.”

After the formalisms had been completed, Daenerys retired to her private apartments with Yara and Daario alike. She settled down, comfortably, or at least seeming more relaxed now, on a low divan, with her legs folded. “I often have strange aches,” she confided, “but the baths help. I will miss them, departing for the east; but it must be done.”

“Well,” the Queen continued after a moment. “I didn’t bring you here to complain. Rather, I want to speak to both of you honestly and alone. I want to ask you both to get along, no matter what. I have lost everyone else, either a traitor, or to death. Everyone. When I look around me, for all the old pillars that I knew when I set out to reclaim my father’s throne—there are the two of you. I enormously respect Grey Worm, and I did forgive him, but…”

“He very nearly worships you, and he did fail, even if you’d never say it yourself,” Yara supplied, her voice quiet, offering a glance to Daenerys, but staying fixed on that mask. “Daenerys, I… I want to promise you that I’m not afraid of what you look like right now.”

“Daario said the same thing.” There was a hint of a smile in her voice, though of course it could not actually be seen. “However, it seems easier this way. I may be the Queen, but in fact, I feel I have very little control over the situation. Everything is being driven by the needs of the people, the freed slaves, by this historical, this providential chance to complete my work, totally, and utterly, so that none may undo it. And, we don’t understand what the Great Other was, or what the machinations of the Three-Eyed Raven in Westeros really are. All I can do is prepare the world, as much as I am able, for the schemes against the light. Prepare it with free folk, where previously slavery reigned.”

“So you need to look perfect?”

“Maybe I want some of my vanity left.”

“Yara spoke for both of us,” Daario acknowledged. “But I won’t stand between you and what you want. Ever. Not Ever. Wear it or don’t wear it around us, whatever is comfortable.”

“Aye, that.” Yara got up and walked around, behind Daenerys. It was a testament to Daenerys’ memory and commitment to her friends that she didn’t stiffen in tension, remembering the way that Jon had betrayed her. Instead, Yara just rubbed her shoulders. “Trying to face that monster without you was a nightmare. I drugged myself to hide my mind from him. He can see the future.”

“I know,” Dany answered. “Even now, Kinvara is certain he knows I am alive, and he can see many futures, but he does not know for certain which one will happen. He can survail anyone that he pleases within his own realms, where the Weirwood trees grow strong, and he may have at least some knowledge of Essos, but, the Lord of Light is strong here, and the magic of Drogon is strong also. Also – knowledge runs into limits before strength. All the wisdom in the world, in the end, can be run-through and burned down.”

“I thought the same, but I didn’t have the strength to face all of Westeros,” Yara shrugged. “I’m glad it isn’t worse than I thought.”

“Now we have the strength. But first thing’s first. We’ll go over the plan for the operation against Mantarys tomorrow. The sooner we depart, the better; the Army was ready, but I waited for you, we needed more ships, Yara.”

“Oh good, I know when I’m wanted.”


	6. Wars and Rumours of War.

**King's Landing, the Dragonpit**

The condemned were led in chains, into the Dragonpit just after Dawn. Two men, and one woman, clad in rags. The men were Dornish, suspected of being adherents to the Martells, the woman a septa who had preached against the regime. The morning mist was just starting to lift, but still a thin drizzle was trickling down.

Lord Tyrion had been waiting here for at least two hours. As Hand to the King, he had tried these three, and pronounced them guilty. The trial had been a farce of course, but that was of no concern. It also fell to him to carry out the sentence that the King had decreed. He had planned the occasion meticulously. He had discussed the proceedings at length with the executioner, Genshed. The three had gags tied round their mouths; he wanted no last words from any of them. A large crowd had already gathered; street vendors were doing a brisk trade, selling bread and olives, sausages on skewers, roasted chestnuts, apples and oranges, and mugs of ale to the smallfolk and wine to the better off. Jugglers and mummers were performing their tricks, in the hope that the crowd would reward them. He noticed with amusement that many of the onlookers had brought their children with them, hoisting them onto their shoulders in order to gain a better view. The crowd was in a jolly mood, a brutal execution always appealing to their sense of humour. At least it would cheer them up, following the sack and burning of half the city, the constant repression, and the news that the Dragon Queen had returned to life.

In the centre of the Dragonpit lay the body of Ser Davos Seaworth, on a pyre, wrapped in the direwolf banner of the Starks. An honour guard of Raven’s Claws surrounded it, swords drawn, commanded by Ser Bronn. Hundreds more Raven’s Claws stood guard, ensuring a clear space in the centre of the pit. Other agents of his, and Lord Allyron’s, mingled among the crowd. They would report on any who seemed disloyal or sceptical.

He took a deep breath, and stepped forward. He raised his hands and the crowd gradually fell silent. “Good people, “ he cried out “We are come to pay tribute to a loyal and valiant servant of his Grace, King Brandon of House Stark, First of His Name. Ser Davos Seaworth, a man who rose from the humblest of circumstances, to the highest eminence. A man cherished by the King’s Grace, but foully slain by agents of Daenerys Targaryen. Yes, the rumours are true. The Red clergy have brought the Queen of Whores back into life, by means of the dark arts. “The crowd started to shout with rage and excitement, jollity now giving way to anger and fear. “Hundreds of men, women, and children were burned alive on their altars, in Volantis, in order to revive the monster. Yet, behold, justice will be done today! We have captured the murderers of Ser Davos!”, he gestured towards the condemned with a flourish. “ A great howl of anger went up from the crowd. “Burn them, tear them, crucify them!” men and women shouted. “Rest assured, good people of this city, that Ser Davos will this day be avenged. “ With that, a mighty roar went up from the crowd, as a group of Raven’s Claws carried three crosses to the centre of the Dragonpit, where holes had been dug for them.

Genshed approached with a broad grin on his face, holding a hammer, flanked by half a dozen mates, some carrying bags of long nails. He remembered how Genshed’s face lit up, as he explained to him the nature of the sentence that he would be carrying out. The executioners' mates unchained each of the criminals, dragging them over to their crosses, which had now been laid flat on the ground. One of them actually broke free, and leapt up, as if to make a run for it, but a swift blow to the head from a guard’s truncheon stunned him, knocking him down again. This time, a pair of assistants dragged him down, and held his right wrist to the branch. Genshed held a nail in place, above the man’s wrist, with his left hand, and raised the hammer with a flourish with his right. Then he swung the hammer down, again and again. “One, two, three, four!” shouted the crowd, in time to the blows. A second nail was swiftly hammered through the man’s forearm, pinning him down. The man writhed in agony, although the gag prevented his screams from being heard. After that, it was easier to nail the rest of the man’s limbs in place. Genshed then repeated the process with the others. The crosses were then raised, allowing the crowd a good view. The crowd shrieked insults at them. Some of them started to pelt them with rotten fruit, dung, and offal, which the Raven’s Claws tolerated, so long as no hard objects were thrown. The crowd cheered at every direct hit, some of the more drunk raising mugs of ale. Tyrion nodded with approval, before raising his hands again. After a few minutes, the crowd gradually fell silent again.

“I assure you, my friends, that these villains will suffer the agonies of the damned for their vile deed. Ser Davos would approve. We have appeased his shade. And, now, we must bid him farewell. Rest assured, he will enter Heaven.” One of the guards handed Tyrion a lighted torch, and he approached the pyre. Internment in a sept would have been more typical, yet half the city’s septs had been destroyed in the fighting, and nor could he rely on the loyalty of the Faith, in any case. He applied the torch to the pyre, which had been drenched with oil. It went up quickly. An eagle emerged from the pyre, before soaring upwards, having been released by Ser Bronn. “Behold, Ser Davos’ spirit ascends to the Heavens!” cried Tyrion, as the crowd cheered. They were too far away to notice the trail of shit the bird left in its wake, as it panicked.

Bronn approached Tyrion, nodding at the condemned on their crosses. “Were any of them actually guilty of Davos’ murder?” he enquired.

“Does it matter”, replied the Hand. “They are guilty of treason. Why else would they be in the camps?”

The sellsword grinned “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if our lord and master didn’t have a hand in old Davos’ death. I mean, we all know he didn’t have the stomach to do what’s needed. His loyalty was unsure.”

“Some opinions are best left unsaid, Bronn, if you catch my meaning.”

“Point taken. The King’s Grace has no more loyal subject than I am. From sellsword to Lord of Highgarden, with highborn girls sucking me off to keep their menfolk out of prison. I’m not complaining, I can tell you.”

The two partners in crime watched content, as the flames consumed the pyre, and their victims squirmed in agony on their crosses.

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**Caladaros, on the Demon Road**

The Demon Road rose from the shallow plains of the Rhoyne up into the heights of land along the Painted Hills, before plunging through shore-descending pines back to the sea to the south, and then cutting across the neck of the Valyrian Peninsula, or what had been the Valyrian Peninsula.

In these lands, where the soil had been covered in volcanic ash a foot thick, the pine trees grew, in forests and thickets, and little else. There were acidic ponds and marshes which were marked by life, and deer had returned, but it was still a pine barren, not a great and luxuriant forest.

From camp to camp, Elaena transported Daenerys on Drogon’s back. They had spent the night before, though, at the island of Isarilos off the coast, which was a colony of Volantis, resettled after the Doom in an attempt to provide food to the great city. As they flew back to the Army, both could clearly see a column of dust moving west along the Demon Road further east from them, seeking to overtake the ships from Isarilos which were drawn up in a shallow bay along the road, to meet the Army with food.

“Your Army won’t make the ships before the enemy cuts them off, I fear, Your Grace,” Elaena advised after an unsteady squint to the east against the late morning’s light.

“There’s going to be a battle,” Daenerys agreed, with a hint of the distant pain of one who knew well the crushing losses to her soldiers and followers that had been inflicted in the past.

“I’ll put you down with Grey Worm and the officers, Your Grace, and head toward them with Drogon. I’ll clear the way.”

“No. I won’t have you launch an attack on Drogon totally exposed without the Army. By all means, bring us down by Grey Worm and the command staff. However, we will all confer, and develop a plan.”

“...Of course, Your Grace.” Elaena sighed a little.

“One should not be in too great of a lust for blood, for the world usually satisfies it, and more,” Daenerys murmured.

“It’s not _that,_ it’s… You, Your Grace. I want to show you I am truly your Sword. A woman dragonlord was just as quick to war as their menfolk.”

“You already are. Elaena, you will learn. I am not here to judge you. I am here to teach you…”

“I’d learn anything you wanted to show me.”

“These are bitter lessons,” Daenerys shook her head.

Soon enough they were on the ground. Elaena helped Daenerys down from Drogon’s side, and paced her toward Grey Worm’s position. A tent was being set up by his attendants, when they saw the approach of the Queen. Elaena’s hand was on her sword, until the moment that they were all surrounded by Unsullied Guards.

A sand-map table was already set out, and the officers were marking their positions as best as they knew. Elaena joined them, and as she had been taught, began marking out the positions she had observed from the air.

Daenerys stepped to Grey Worm’s side, and Elaena could hear them speaking, faintly, behind her.

“It’s a large Army, greater than Mantarys can field by itself, I think, all the remaining cities have combined against us,” the Queen was saying softly, her words drawn under her silver mask. Out of the corner of her eye, Elaena could see Quaithe and Kinvara step closer as well.

“What did you mark their numbers for?”

“Seventy thousand, about fifty foot, twenty horse; eighty elephants,” Elaena answered to Grey Worm, looking up. “They’re weighted to their right, to the north. Probably to try and turn our flank and pin us against the sea. They have about ten thousand thrown forward as skirmishers, I’d say, most of them with sword and shield but some with slings and bows; and ten thousand heavy archers and arbalastiers they’re deploying behind, but the plain bulk of the foot are phalangites, in good order. I think only half the cavalry are kataphractoi, the other half are a scrabbly lot of outriders.”

She was given a glass of watered wine—only one, of course.

The Queen looked coolly around her advisors, her General.

Grey Worm bowed. “I have given the order to deploy the Army, Your Grace. The enemy’s strength is on our left, they intend to turn us and drive us against the shore.”

“Allow me to attack,” Elaena turned toward them, and glanced toward her own attendants, who were present. “Bring me my full suit of dragon armour,” she instructed; it was almost impossible to walk in, it was so heavy, and not normally worn, even when a-flight. “I’ll take every precaution, Your Grace, but I’ll start with the enemy’s right flank, so the pike in our centre can overwhelm them, strength to strength along the road.”

“Pikemen will be broken in the pine thickets, will they not, Grey Worm?” Daenerys’ eyes expressed a trace of concern.

“The Unsullied will reform around every obstacle. So it will hurt the enemy worse than it does us, but yes, the Volantene volunteers, the religious troops—they could suffer. Of course, if Lady Elaena begins the attack with the front rank, then the rear could break and run. It would be very hard to reorganise them in the pines, and many of the rank and file, hearing of defeat, will slip away. I don’t think it’s a risk of many reaching Mantarys, they either kept enough troops to defend the city or they didn’t, Your Grace.”

“Attacking from the direction of the wind?”

“Your Grace,” Elaena offered urgently, “It will keep their arrows from him, and their ballista bolts from Drogon. It will impact their range, and carry Drogon’s flames further, too.”

“All right. Grey Worm, make the deployments, and muster the reserves here.” Daenerys stamped her boot, such a small gesture from a small woman, but as clear as a clarion bell in the hot and still air of a sharp late spring, for the lands of the Long Summer, after the end of a hard winter. “And Elaena, get your armour, get your help to Drogon, and take to the air. Burn the enemy’s left, break them from the front, so that they flee to the rear, and then burn to the south, until you reach those troops who have made contact with our army. Then return to this position.”

“Your Grace,” they chorused. It left Kinvara and Quaithe around Daenerys, talking to her, as Grey Worm and Elaena went their separate ways. Elaena was quickly dressed in her armour, and then dragged herself the rest of the way to her dragon.

She returned to Drogon, stroking his wing as she approached, metal on dragonscale. Then she reached his side and lunged up into the saddle. From the mass of rags stuffed into her smallclothes to the rock-fibre woven into silk under her armour to defend against the heat of the enemy—the thick steel plates, the crystal eye-pieces on the outer of the two visors, she was protected. She was ready. Drogon snorted and raised his head, at the trumpets and drums of troops deploying, but other than their own banners disappearing into position, nothing could be seen through the pine trees.

One of the serving girls who had supported her until she had gotten too close to Drogon for safety—ignoring a warning chuff from the great dragon, but retreating the moment she could nonetheless—extended an extremely long flexible double-ended lance, a _kontos,_ that she took and fixed to iron bands hanging from the side of the saddle, and then a second for the other side. These were recommended, in the books of the Old Freehold, to defend a grounded dragon that had wing damage, though Drogon was so massive that Elaena doubted they were really necessary.

Then she buckled in the final chains, drew herself tight in the saddle, and placed her hand tight on the hilt of her sword for a moment. “The Lord of Light keep fast my soul, and protect me only so that I may do His work on this day,” she murmured a quick prayer. Then she took up her whip, and snapped it once. Drogon lunged forward, awkwardly, and then, with great wing beats, taking into the air, and rising hard to clear the pines ahead. Turning to the right, he began to climb by sweeping out toward the sea, and then Elaena guided him back toward the battlefield from behind, gaining altitude to try and get a good field of view and mark the position of the enemy, now well into their deployments.

She angled toward the north, where from gaps in the trees, she could see banners, and the glint of iron in the sun, now high enough in the air that her armour was uncomfortable, even at altitude. It was about to get worse. Elaena drained her canteen, the last water she would get this until this was over, and slapped down the inner face shield, the one that had full slits in the visor. Shifting through the foothills of the painted mountains, she selected her course, guided Drogon in with the whip, and let him descend.

It’s best for an enemy Army to be distracted by opposition on the ground when a Dragon attacks. Particularly one which knew how to fight dragons, at least in the abstract. But Elaena wanted to hit them, hard, before they had closed to contact, following the Queen’s objective for her to break the enemy’s right flank from the front to the back.

The rushing wind now howled with arrows and a few bolts rising from polyboli, the old Valyrian repeating ballistae which Volantis and Mantarys still knew how to make, quickly brought into action from permanent mounts on four-wheeled carts. Elaena snapped down her outer visor, reducing her vision to the wavering world through the crystal. “Scare them, Drogon,” she whispered, and was met with a terrible fierce roar of a dragon ripping across the battlefield. Then, through the pines, she saw the first clear formation.

“ _Dracarys._ ”

A solid wall of flame, as bright as the glowing white-hot metal of a forge, and mostly the same colour, shot through with a dark blue, trending to black, which promised even hotter temperatures, and reflected the size, power, and scale colouration of Drogon, tore outwards, tore downwards… It was expelled so quickly, from a dragon flying sixty miles on the hour, off to the right side, per the direction of the whip and the plan which had been agreed.

The flames themselves spread with the fury and swiftness of the dragon. The gust front of the wall of flame seemed to go at least four or five times faster than Drogon Himself. Trees disappeared in a flash, and files of men through the pines flashed into white blazing columns of bright flame as the last of their movements continued even as they were now torches.

With your blood up for battle, so that you didn’t pause to think of the lives being snuffed out, and all that mattered was winning and executing your duty, it felt for a moment very much like being a God. Elaena, at last, felt the knowledge that she was a Dragonlord course through her hot and bright blood.

The right flank of the enemy army felt the pressure instantly. The pine trees flamed up like torches, burning bright and fast as their resin fuelled the fires like oil. The forest … Was like it was caught in a fire-storm, and indeed, the wind blowing from the north off the mountains, quickly whipped the flames high and fast, tearing through formations which Elaena had not yet attacked.

Attack, attack, attack: Thousands of men were being killed or broken and running. The attack was superficially a success. But though Elaena was not aware of it, not yet, the flames were spreading and being driven south. With them, burning hot through the resinous soft-wood, was smoke. Smoke and ash, spreading across the battlefield. The hideous trumpeting of burning elephants was particularly pitiful.

The men of Mantarys, Tolos, and Elyria knew what that was. It was a chance to win, despite the fact that they faced the greatest threat they had known in centuries. Their officers forced them on through the smoke.

When Elaena swung to the south after she had burned her way through the enemy’s right wing, she was confronted with a vast expanse of rising smoke from the huge forest fire that she had created burning through the enemy forces. The wind from the north kept driving both smoke and flame to the south, and with it, the whole battlefield was choked with the fiery remains of what she had wrought.

“Oh God.” The smoke choked at her helmet, choked at her nose, her lungs. It obscured the crystals in the outer visor of her helmet, until, regardless of the risk, she snapped it up, and tried to look through the slits, just for the sharp, stingy, acrid heat to drive her back. Drogon could certainly advance through it, and attack through it, but she could see nothing, and she could not guide him, and with the whole of the Army now engaged around them, if she descended to attack, she was certain to wipe out numbers of their own troops.

Elaena tried to think of what Daenerys would want her to do. The conclusion was inescapable. The Queen loved her loyal subjects. She should not, and ought not, burn them down of her own volition, without permission or orders, in the midst of the destruction, the smoke, the uncertainty.

Grimly feeling like, for all the destruction she had just wrought on the battlefield, she had failed, and failed comprehensively, Elaena circled, looking for an opening to renew the attack. She wasn’t finding one.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As many cruel men were, the commander of the Mantaryan centre was quite intelligent. He read the situation, and saw that the smoke could still bring him victory. So he rushed his troops forward and flung them into the attack under the cover created by the destruction of the Army’s right wing.

Grey Worm realised what had happened, standing with the Queen and her advisors as the sounds of battle drew closer to them. The men of Volantis and her colonies were being driven back, as the enemy advanced toward them with confidence that their desperation, and a trick of fortune, might have granted them a true chance at victory against a Dragon.

He stepped forward and tapped out the positions on the map, his composure marred by an almost trembling intensity of every muscle coiled, for in this moment, he had the faith of his Queen to win back. The reports were clear that the rate of advance was different, the enemy’s left flank was moving faster, as they were less impacted by the dense clouds of smoke from the north, which were intense enough to not just hinder Drogon, silent in the skies above, glaringly so, but also their own advance as foot through the pine woods. “Your Grace, I will wheel the Unsullied reserves to the right and cut between the enemy centre and the right. Then we can send the Dothraki for their headquarters through the gap that I create. We can still win the battle, we still can still stay on the offensive. They’ve opened a gap between their left and centre, and for what it is worth, their right is gone, their strongest formation. We will be able to punch through, advancing en echelon.”

There was one serious negative with the plan, of course.

Daenerys could hear it in his voice. “What is the risk?” She asked, stepping forward to look down across the map table.

“Our centre cannot hold. We will be committing almost all of our reserves. They may be able to reach the position of this headquarters.”

“If my guard must be committed, I have no objection. Go over on the advance, and win the battle, Grey Worm.”

“It may be very hot here, Your Grace.”

“Let it be. Go. I am content with your plan. See it through.” Violet eyes met dark ones and the mask couldn’t hide the fact there was, at some level, the soul of Daenerys Targaryen in that unnaturally revived figure. The soul of a woman who was not and never would be a soldier herself, but certainly, also, was forever unaccustomed to fear.

He came to attention and saluted. “I will lead the counterattack in person, Your Grace! Long Live the Breaker of Chains!”

It might be as he turned away, that he saw just for a moment, a trace of tears in those violet eyes.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Through the wind-whipped smoke and flame, the broken troops of Daenerys’ Kingdom of Volantis were retreating, streaming past her headquarters. Some wept. Some ran. Some had their weapons, some did not. Some had their armour, some did not. None blamed her. She was too beloved for that. But the centre, exactly as Grey Worm had warned, had broken.

They had brought a white mare for Daenerys. Her personal guards were formed, with the Temple Guards on the right, the Unsullied contingent on the left. They stood calm and composed in line, none of them would think of joining the panic. Their charge was still behind them, Daenerys the Undying.

With a nod to Kinvara, she let the Red Priestess take the reins of her horse, and lead her out into the mass of fleeing men. The Priestess held her knife high, which flickered with unnatural flames, as a symbol of her faith in her right hand, as her left held the reins of the Queen’s horse, clutched together with a book of the Flames. “Men of Volantis! Faithful! They will want to burn her but she cannot be burned up! They will want to break her but she cannot be broken! They will want to kill her but death itself cannot conquer her! On the third day of her death, when it was believed all hope was lost, she screamed: _FREEDOM! over the land must return._ And death cannot conquer her!”

“DEATH CANNOT CONQUER HER!”

She began to advance, in the direction that the rhythmic stamping boots of the Mantaryans were coming from, the deceptively soft sound of the flutes which timed their advance. The now-ritual declaration of Daenerys triumph over Death resounded.

The Priestess standing forward with Holy Text, Holy Dagger, with the Queen’s reins in her hands—with Daenerys, silent, impassive, as she had been so much more since her rebirth. But a gleaming figure in silver on a white horse, showing no sign of fear…

Men stopped, and men wept in shame.

Then the Queen drew the sword at her belt. She had never used one; it was strictly for show. “This Army is a Strong Army!” Daenerys cried. “I have faith in you my children! It is not this moment I will judge you for, but the moment when the battle is done! Rally, my children, rally!”

It was then that the ranks of the Mantaryan phalangites emerged from the smoke, their serried pikes levelled. Their formations were discomfited and broken up by the terrain and the conditions and hard fighting, but they still advanced in an ominous array. Still, the display of the Queen, now directly hazarding herself to danger, and led by a Red Priestess, shamed many men. They stopped. Their officers regained their courage and rallied them. Around banners and other symbols that they still held, knots began to form, stopping, as men whose courage rallied fell in around them, not in a true formation, but in tight little bands where courage and resolution began to grow, with the same strange spread as the despair which had, only thirty minutes before, started to put them to flight.

Those serried ranks slammed into the men who were rallying around them. They slammed into the two companies of guards, fixed in the centre to stand and die like stones. And stand and die, they began to do.

Kinvara raised her voice up and began to sing, unnaturally amplified by her magic:

“ **Fear not, little flock, the foe**

**Who madly seeks your overthrow;**

**Dread not his rage and power:**

**What though your courage sometimes faints.**

**His seeming triumph o'er** **our Lord’s Martyrs**

**Lasts but a little hour!**

**Be of good cheer; your cause belongs**

**To Him who can avenge your wrongs;**

**Leave it to Him, our Lord.**

**Though hidden yet from mortal eyes,**

**Triumph yet** **shall for you arise:**

**He girdeth on His sword!”**

More and more of the broken men rallied. They fought and they struggled, but the Mantaryans came on to their flutes. They loomed so close to the quiet Queen on her horse that they could almost touch her.

Then Kinvara, standing closer still to them, but with no fear in her heart, saw Quaithe. She stood patiently behind the lines, and nocked an arrow. It was a great bow, and it looked to be wrought of bone. Standing fast in her place, she aimed toward one of the Mantaryan officers, with a perfect vision under her wooden mask, and loosed it. He dropped with the arrow placed sharply across his face, in a hideous wound through his visor.

She nocked another, and sent it down-range to drop one of the file-closers. Then again, and again, as fast as she could, and she had claimed twelve men in a minute if she had claimed any at all! It was a stunningly brilliant performance, by any measure. Within the range of her sight, she claimed man after man, killing them without hesitation, pause, or fail. It seemed impossible for her to miss.

It was downright unnatural, the Priestess well knew.

But she did the Lord’s work, nonetheless.

And like a miracle shining a ray from hope in the heavens, Quaithe’s work had kept the enemy off Daenerys just enough. A shout of despair went up from the Mantaryan lines, spreading like the plague, the plague of fear that had routed Daenerys’ centre, less than an hour before:

“The Dothraki! The Dothraki! The Dothraki are in the rear! We are lost! WE ARE LOST!”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Overhead, Elaena could see, through the gusts of smoke, at times obscuring and at times revealing the battlefield, a surge of men falling to the rear. They made haste down the black rock of the Demon Road. They made haste through the thickets, and through the clearings where they could be made out.

Gradually, she took heart, as she realised that she was witnessing the rout of an Army to the east. The rout of the enemy. With them, the enemy’s left, cut off and flanked by the Unsullied, were falling back along the sea-beaches.

One of the lessons drilled into her by the books of war of the old Freehold was that a Dragonlord in battle should show no mercy to a fleeing enemy. They could rally and trouble the legions again. They could reach the safety of walls, and garrison a city against assault, forcing it to be burned, or stormed at great cost in free men, for the Valyrians of old had not used slaves as soldiers.

The pursuit was when you transformed a tactical victory into a strategic one.

She dove on the men of the enemy’s left as they retreated down the beach. “ _Dracarys_!”

The sand melted and ran and turned into black glass, with the fragments of burnt bone and the drippings of melted steel fused into it. The waves ran to steam. A thousand yards of beach turned into a permanent, hellish memorial to the triumph.

The slaving Lords of the three cities were broken, for-ever.

It remained to liberate their people.

Elaena, with Drogon, may have done most of the killing, but she landed, humbled with respect at the fact that it was Grey Worm with his men and steel, who had won the day.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**The Rapids of the Antarim River**

In the days of Old Valyria, it was said that a flight of locks had commanded these rapids. The grain of Northern Valyrian was collected from Mantarys south all along the shore, and then the boats, heavy with this bounty, floated through the locks and out to sea, to sail down to Valyria and supply the cities of the Freehold with enough food so that there was never hunger, so that even the poorest free citizen, no matter how mean their birth, could eat as much as they wanted to.

The massive tides of volcanic mud and ash, which had churned through the locks, had buried them. The ground had broken and cracked and reared up, where the land further to the south had collapsed and sunk. There were no fumeroles here, or other signs of the hellish conditions to the south. But there were buildings choked with ash and mud, and while cleaning the way for a roller track, they had found bones and bodies preserved in them. Men whispered and muttered prayers, and carried them away, for in that stillness of death, not even decay had touched those buried, nothing lived in what had been packed down upon them.

The Fourteen Fires had killed them all with a tremendous, horrible vengeance upon the land, and the people who had reigned over them like Gods.

“Best to expect only death out of life, you will not be surprised,” Yara muttered to herself, looking at the track they had cleared, the rock thrown down, the wood over it, greased. Bronze-geared capstans at the top worked heavy hawsers, and ship after ship ascended. The proper Iron Fleet, the ships which were the strength of the Navy, remained behind to guard the portage. It would be the lighter, handier raiding ships of her loyal men and Captains, which were being dragged up. They did not need the Iron Fleet for this, and it made the portage go faster, and on a short journey up the Sea of Sighs, they would manage to carry all the troops they needed for the assault on the City of Monsters.

To the south, the ruins of the city of Aquos Dhaen were nearby. They were as far as anyone dared go. A line of high mountains separated them from the Smoking Sea beyond; Aquos Dhaen had been picked over thoroughly, and if you crossed the mountains, you descended into what was Valyria proper. Oros was the last city on the mainland, and it was said that the ruins were still inhabited, though no outsiders came to trade, and it had a much more fearsome reputation than even Mantarys; men did not travel willingly to Oros, and what its civilisation had, if it was even a place worthy of civilisation anymore. Few knew, though rumours of dark cults and cannibalism abounded, and tales of monsters even more horrible than those said to make up the bulk of the population of Mantarys.

Aye, it was a fearsome place to leave men and lead armies, a fearsome place to make themselves vulnerable in a portage. But they were Ironborn, and they dared greatly. If there was water to float a boat, they could raid on it, and it had been long since the days before the Targaryens, when portaging for raids had been common. When they returned home, it would be another tale for the bards.

“And I’m doing it for you, Dany,” Yara murmured, and wished, dearly, that the Dragonqueen was more of herself.

She didn’t deserve this, but that Dany had rallied and was nonetheless making the best of it, told everything of her true worthiness. There was no finer cause for war than the one for which they now marched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The hymn that Kinvara sings is the Swan Song of Gustavus Adolphus, suitably modified; the hymn that was said to be sung by the Swedish Army, the day of the Battle of Lützen. 
> 
> 2\. Kinvara's behaviour is likewise somewhat inspired by the actions of Jakob Fabricius, the preacher of Gustavus Adolphus, who after the King's death and the routing of the Yellow and Blue Regiments in the centre at the same terrible battle of Lützen, rallied the broken remnants thereof by riding into the fray, holding a bible in the air, with a few officers around him, singing Psalms. 
> 
> 3\. Another inspiration is the Battle of Eylau, where Napoleon's position was nearly overrun in fierce fighting before the Russians were finally driven back, in part by a massed cavalry charge...
> 
> 4\. Though some elements of the battle also reflect the Battle of Raphia between the Seleukids and Ptolemies. 
> 
> 5\. I once wargamed a similar battle with some of my friends in a campaign in which Tywin is alive to try and defend the Westerlands from Dany with one dragon old enough to fight. This Battle of Crakehall took advantage of intentionally positioning the Army in a forest, so that when Drogon began to burn the forest, the forest fire made it impossible for Dany to continue to attack the Lannister Army; she still won thanks to the Unsullied, but it was a savagely bloody affair. 
> 
> 6\. It was common for the Vikings to take advantage of using light ships to raid deep inland or traverse great river systems with the advantage of portaging. Perhaps the furthest, most infamous and tragic of these was the epic raid of Ingvar the Far-Travelled, who raided the Caspian Sea coast of Persia. 
> 
> 7\. The funeral of Davos is inspired by the funeral of Kirov, the Soviet party boss "mysteriously" "murdered", whose death justified much of the excesses of the purges, and was probably in fact an arranged murder by Stalin.
> 
> 8\. A Polybolos is a real weapon. It was essentially a crank-operated, chain-drive Hellenistic repeating ballistae. The Valyrian version uses heavy steel gears and cranks and steel bows, and possibly cables for firing. Operated by a relatively large team using all known methods of providing mechanical force in ancient times, it would be a fearsome weapon. Each bolt could run through a fully armoured knight and casually leave him pinned to the tree behind him; strike down an elephant, and, of course, threaten a dragon, though a dragon's fiercesome hide would turn one almost all of the time. I envision a similar technology being a feature of Rhoynish and later Dornish defences against dragons, but not widespread due to enormous cost and secrets in design; thus not available for Tywin and the other rulers of Westeros. If the mount was fully trainable it would be ... A little-bit effective. If plentiful bolts and men to feed it were available, the sustained rate of fire was about three times that of a typical bolt thrower.


	7. The March to the East

Jon was cursed, he knew. Night after night, alone in his tent, save for Ghost, he dreamed of what he had done. “You are my Queen, now and always; I love you” he lied, before driving a knife into the heart of Daenerys, his closest relative. He woke screaming each time. The freefolk thought he was mad. Apart from Tormund and a few others, they mostly shunned him, even as they allowed him to live with them, hunt with them, fight with them. Some of them were still grateful for his help against the White Walkers, but they knew him for a fugitive and criminal, even if they were unsure what exactly, he had done.

“Did I do right? It doesn’t feel right,” he had asked the monster who had talked him into committing murder. “Ask me in ten years” the creature had replied. Ten years? It had taken him ten weeks. Refugees had joined them from the South, over the past year. Men and women, bearing horrid tales of oppression, murder, enslavement. It had taken him little time to work out that his relatives had used him and Daenerys, then betrayed them, before flinging him into the wilderness. It was no more than he deserved, he knew now. But, that was no consolation. She had not deserved it.

The Freefolk had tolerated him, these past months, but only just. Then the pox came, claiming the lives of children. One of the men, Hama, had lost an infant daughter. He blamed Jon. Why, the gods alone knew, but he was an outsider, and a wrongdoer. The cold had begun to lessen, and the snow was now thawing and melting. Plants were starting to emerge, and the game had become more abundant. They hunted along the Milkwater. But, the air was damp, and the children suffered accordingly.

News had reached them that the seior, Val, who had once been Jon’s prisoner at Castle Black, had returned to her cottage, a few miles away. After the death of the Night King, she had journeyed into the far North. The elders of the tribe sought her counsel, and she came to them, gathered before her, in an open field. They spoke of the sickness that claimed the lives of children.

Val frowned at Tormund. She was still beautiful, Jon noted, tall and slender, with hair the colour of honey and grey-eyed. Once, Jon knew, she had desired him, but there was little sign of affection now.

“Tormund Giantsbane, why have you brought Jon Snow to dwell among your people?” she asked, stern.

“He fought for them, against the Dead. He’s earned his place among us.”

“He is a kinslayer. He murdered the sister of his father. Is that not so?” she enquired of Jon.

“It is”, he murmured, refusing to look her in the eye.

“The gods hate kinslayers. They are cursed. They curse the people they live among. Is it any wonder that the children sicken, when you allow such a man to dwell with you?” she asked the throng. There was an angry muttering, a couple of men even reaching for their weapons.

“We didn’t know”, snarled Hama, drawing his sword, “but, I’ll settle this now.”

“Sheathe your weapon” commanded Val. The man complied with bad grace. “The kinslayer is marked by the gods. No man may slay him. For his punishment is not death, which he craves as a boon, but rather, life. Life, despised by all. Life, despising himself. Life, shunned by his fellows. You must leave the tribe” she commanded Jon. “But, first we must talk. You may stay at my home, for the evening. Then, you must depart for good.”

She waited as Jon furled his tent and gathered his belongings, saying goodbye to Tormund, before they departed, Ghost trotting beside them. After a couple of hours, they reached her home, a low wooden building, on the banks of the Milkwater. A pair of young women, twins it seemed, greeted Val on her return. Servants, or acolytes, Jon guessed. She led him into the main room, which was clean and smelled pleasantly of wood smoke. One of the girls fetched them horns of ale, the other tended a cooking pot, which was suspended on an open fire from a tripod.

“Be seated” she said. “I know many things about you, Jon Snow. The waters, the trees, the birds, they tell me much, but I would hear your tale in your own words. How did the heir to the Seven Kingdoms come to be living in the wilderness as a fugitive?”

He spent the next two hours, giving his side of the story. Val questioned him from time to time, but said little to interrupt him. When he had finished she sighed. Then she said, “You spent your life running from evil, Jon. You ran so hard and so far from it, that you ended up embracing it. Your brother, Bran, he died in that cave. The thing that rules in the South has claimed his body, but that is not him. As for your sister, Sansa, whatever goodness she possessed was destroyed by her abusers. The North and the South are ruled by evil people, Jon, and you brought this about. Why?”

“I was afraid. The woman I loved. I thought she was a threat to my family, to all the people. I saw her burn innocents at Kings Landing.”

“And were your own hands clean? The hands of your soldiers, who you say ran amok? You say that her advisors favoured starving the people of the city. Was that a kind proposal? The Freefolk know what it is to go hungry. Believe me, it’s not a fate we would wish on our worst enemies, to die by inches in that way. To watch your own children dying by inches. And who brought your Queen to this position. By your own account, your siblings, the Imp, the Spider, they were all working against her. Who did she have left, that she could trust?”

“I know that now. I think a kind of madness possessed me.”

“Supper is ready” said the young woman who had prepared the stew. The four of them ate together. They said little as they ate. Eventually, the other two left them, and they resumed talking.

“I must tell you something Val. A week ago, I lay in my tent with Ghost. I was drifting off to sleep, and then I heard a presence, speaking through Ghost. He said that the Red God, had brought Daenerys back from death. That she threatened the world. That it was my destiny to slay her for good. Is this true?”

“I cannot say. A Red Priestess restored you to life, so perhaps they have restored Daenerys Targaryen. I think you heard the creature who rules in Kings Landing. If, indeed she has returned to life, he has every reason to fear her wroth. On no account obey him. He does not mean you well.” She thought for a while, then “I can perform a charm that will seal your mind, and that of your direwolf from him”.

“Do it Val. Please.”

For the next hour, she chanted her spell, strangely calming, at the same time chopping ingredients, and stirring them into a pot, which she suspended from the cooking tripod. When she had finished, she poured the contents into a flask. “Drink this” she commanded. “It will give you a deep and dreamless sleep. He will never trouble you again.” She was as good as her word. For the first time in a year, Jon slept soundly. That at least, was something to be grateful for, he thought, as he trudged away from her house, to begin life on his own.

__________________________________________________________________________

The wind held Yara’s fleet, with eighty longships, at the Bay of Aquos Dhaen for three days on the south end of the lake, blowing hard down from the north to the south. When it was replaced with a west wind, the sails flew up again, and they hauled up their anchors, and trimmed their yards, and made time to the northeast, running as fast as their angle to the wind could permit.

The sea was dark, black water, and when the sun shown on it, it seemed to glimmer with a lush, ominous purple-red. The men refused to drink the water until Yara took up a tankard and guzzled it down herself. An absolutely giant freshwater lake like this would see the bad humours settle to the bottom, she knew, and be the safest water in the whole land, regardless of how it looked. It was the same with the God’s Eye in Westeros, a hundred and twenty miles long by a hundred miles wide, and so deep that no anchor would bite and hold bottom. Here it was the same, once they stood out for Mantarys, no anchor would hold.

The men muttered. It was an ill thing, some thought, to die away from the salt, where the Drowned God might not hold power. But Yara held her axe to those who muttered. “I reckon that where you can drown, Our Lord has power,” she said. “Shall we see if you can drown in it?”

They quieted after that, and Tristifer grinned at the turn of phrase. Yara laughed easily, and turned back toward the poop.

“Once they see the plunder they can have in Mantarys, they’ll settle down. It’s just queer,” Qarl opined when the three stood together again.

“It’s so, but they also know their homes have been occupied by the Monster in King’s Landing,” Tristifer murmured. “The sooner we return to fight it, the better that morale will be.”

“They’ll have to settle for plunder for a while,” Yara shrugged. “We are decidedly the junior allies in this partnership. Qarl _is_ right. Plunder is what will make them get up and fight, right now. Fortunately, our mission in this little expedition gives us the first crack at it.”

Days passed by after the incident, with the men settling down, as they found sailing on the lake, the sea, to be like enough to sailing on the ocean. The ship creaked below them, and more often than not, they could not see the shore on either side. On the hot freshwater sea, the ships smelled of pitch and tar, and they passed through schools of fish in the waters that below that erupted, jumping from the surface to fly across their decks and back below the surface, some kind of foreign carp. The warm wind carried them onwards, day after day, racing the marching army, until at last they arrived before Mantarys.

It was a distant, storybook image of picturesque ruin. The towers seemed to droop at angles, and there were many of them, lining the rotted, collapsed ruins of wharves, while the black-rock quays stood undamaged. The towers in their black stone were clearly the towers of the cranes along the quays; they were outside of the walls of the city. The walls themselves were no great construct, not compared to the black walls of Volantis, but there were two courses, the outer course was 80 feet high, and the inner course 120 feet high, and both as wide as they were high; except at the harbour there was only an inner course, and there were 120-foot high flanking walls extending out into the sea to high sea towers which marked its limits on either side. The roofs slumped in, and there were holes in places, but others, with stone vaults, still stood proud, marking the huge warehouses which had been the transshipment point for all the lands to their north to send goods to Mantarys, where they could be loaded by ship for the journey down the freshwater sea to Valyria. The black rock walls and buildings seemed to glimmer faintly in the sun.

Men muttered at how much of it there was, when they had seen it before only in the walls of Volantis, and the roads; here, it was used for everything. They were in awe of this city, which gleamed with a strange black light. High towers, also partially in ruin, were easily visible above the walls. They were like massive ziggurats, hundreds of feet high, with flat platforms, standing in a cluster at the centre of the city. Collapsed bridges, the broken stubs hinting at how they might have once been airy, graceful and complete, gave the appearance of a second city in the air, spanning tower to tower, which had fallen to ruin in the streets below. A quick visual estimate of the circumference of the walls suggested to Yara that the city at its height must have had a half a million residents, though who knew how many it was now. Mantarys, once the capital of the directly-ruled Governorate of North Valyria within the Freehold.

The City of Monsters.

On closer inspection, she could see that the height of the Sea of Sighs had clearly risen since the cataclysm, the river blocked by the volcanic eruptions. The quays were barely above water, the ruins of the docks half-flooded and submerged, some of the lower streets and buildings in the water, lapping directly against them. More than four hundred years of storms had yet been inadequate to bring down structures of black rock, though, and so they endured.

“God,” Tristifer muttered softly to himself. “What a cursed ruin.”

Yara shook her head. “What a splendid prize,” she countered. “But we will not take it by storm without help, that much is for sure.”

“A Dragon, Your Grace!”

Yara turned to the north. “ _The_ Dragon,” she corrected. “Drogon. The Sword will be flying her.” She watched, her hands cupped against the sun, as an experienced sailor would do, letting her eyes adjust. “It means the Army is near. The wind did not hurt us, their march was slow, though, since I see no sign of lines of circumvallation or contravallation.”

“What is she up to? She doesn’t seem to be moving,” Qarl remarked.

“Look, she’s circling, I think,” Tristifer answered.

“Over a cove. I’d wager it’s clear enough—they want us to draw the fleet up there. And it’s right. A direct assault would be bloody, but if we can survey the approaches to the old docks, they might give us an opening. They’re clearing completely abandoned. Come on!” Yara herself went back to the tiller, and had the longship brought around.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the fleet was drawn up on the soft sand shore, Yara dropped down onto the beach, splashing water across her boots. The immense form of Drogon and the young figure of the Volantene girl who flew him for the Dragon Queen made for a moment a perfect contrast, but there was, in truth, no contrast between a Dragonlord and a Dragon. They were cut from the same essential fabric.

Case in point was the fact that this close to the walls, there was no escort or guard for a girl who was now still only of fourteen years.

Yara approached, and Elaena politely bowed. “Your Grace.”

“Elaena,” Yara smiled informally. “Shall we pitch our camp here?”

“Unfortunately, yes; the Gates of the City of Monsters are closed,” Elaena sighed. “We won a victory, at Calabaros along the Demon Road, but it was extremely bloody.”

Yara turned back for a moment. “Establish our camp along the shore here, so we can defend our ships! I will go to hold a Council of War with the Dragon Queen.” With her orders acknowledged, she turned back to Elaena, and the two walked along the shore. “How bad was it, then? Grey Worm?” She asked, gingerly, having respect for the man.

“He is well. The Unsullied won the day, with their great discipline. They launched an oblique assault en echelon against the enemy left, and split it from the centre. But it should have never been; when I burned the enemy strength on their right, I set all of the pine forests on the battlefield alight, and the smoke and cinders and flames made it impossible for me to tell the enemy from our own troops, so I couldn’t continue the attack with Drogon.” She shivered, still clearly cursing herself inside. “In fact, the Queen and her camp were nearly overcome by the enemy, because their centre was strong enough to rout all the units in the centre when Grey Worm had concentrated all the Unsullied to counterattack, and the Dothraki to exploit. The High Priestess Kinvara had to rally the men who routed in the centre herself, and all the while, I was flying, helplessly; I wasn’t able to rejoin the battle until the enemy’s left tried to retreat along the sea shore, and I was able to put paid to them then.”

“You _only_ destroyed a wing of an Army and you _only_ finished a second when they were retreating.” Yara paused, and reached out, and grabbed Elaena by the shoulders, looking down at her. “You’re fourteen. Most men, sons of Lords and Kings, would kill to have done that. And many of them would have made the mistake. You’re smart enough, lass, that I expect you’ll learn from it. It was a messy battle, but it was won. And let me ask you this, lass. You _could_ have burned and risked severe casualties to our own forces, right?”

“Yes, Your Grace, I could have,” Elaena admitted with wide, violet eyes.

“Would Daenerys have wanted that?”

“I…”

“The answer is _no._ The Queen isn’t the kind of woman who burns her own Army alive to win a victory. In the end, Grey Worm was still, I am sure, able to keep casualties less than if you had burned indiscriminately. In fact, I think you made the _right_ call, for the information you had. It’s not like you can ask some veteran Dragonlord for his opinion on the use of dragons to attack armies in wooded positions. It’s a hell of a thing to place that kind of trust on a fourteen year old, and you held it well, lass. You’ll be fighting close to my men to help us take Mantarys, and what that told me was, in fact, you’ve got the head on your shoulders to do it right. So keep learning. Come on.”

She gave Elaena a pat on the back. “We women who fight have to stick together… I can tell you’ve got an aim to really use that sword. Daenerys – is the greatest woman alive, but she leads as the Mother of Her People.”

“I’m the Sword,” Elaena smiled thinly, and together they walked back toward Drogon, and beyond him, the lines of pickets marking the position of the Volantene Army.

“Yeah…” Inside, Yara wondered about that, and she took the opportunity to follow up on it, when she was alone with Daenerys in the rather cavernous pavilion tent which the Queen had for campaign, that evening.

“Daenerys, you have to tell me. What _are_ you doing with that girl, Elaena? You’ve given her so much trust, but it’s also an awful lot of responsibility you’ve put on her. I mean, _awful._ She’s fourteen, and you’ve had Daario and Grey Worm and I all tutoring her, you’ve had her leading in the field, launching attacks with Drogon. Beyond it simply being necessary, you seem to be preparing her, and to be honest, I think you’ve been very hard on her.”

For a moment, Daenerys closed her eyes, and her eyelids, heavy and pale white, were all that Yara could see of her expression. “I have to be hard on her, Yara. I learned the wrong lessons from my own life. She must learn the right ones. To understand that mercy in the moment is false, because it leads you away from doing the right thing from the whole of the people who look up to you. To understand that counsel must be judged against interests, and loyalty is an unreliable thing. Also, to realise that we’re riding a tiger. The Faith will not stop until slavery ends, in all of western Essos. The people call out for freedom, and I aim to bring it to them.”

“You talk like you’re training a general and not a fourteen year old girl.”

“She will be a general, Yara. She will be a General, a Dragonrider, and just perhaps, more.”

Yara stiffened and took a shuddering breath when it came to her. There _was_ one reason for Daenerys to be treating her that way, at that age. There was one kind of child who had to be raised that way. One kind of child who needed to be stiffened and challenged from a young age in the ways of leadership, and the hard decisions it created, and required. “You’re going to make her your heir, aren’t you, Dany?”

“Of course I am. _If she’s worthy._ The Saerganyon are descendants of the Targaryen, through Jaehaerys the Conciliator, that’s how she could ride to begin with. And behind the Black Walls, the blood stayed true. Perhaps truer than my own! But that’s part of the problem, Yara. Oh God, that’s part of the problem. She was raised a haughty pureblood in every respect. She was raised to be a slaver, not a slave. I had to teach her _humility._ I had to teach her to love the people, even as she learned to not repeat my own mistakes.” Daenerys shuddered with intensity. “I don’t want Drogon to be alone when I’m gone. That’s why I chose to have her ride him. He is my only living son, now, and forever will be. Is it selfish of me? I don’t know, but I do know, that though he has lost his brothers, I have given him someone who will grow up a brood of the Dragon-blooded around him. Someone to rule my lands when I am gone, to carry on my family name. But not yet. I must be sure she is ready. _I MUST BE SURE!_ ”

Daenerys was convulsively trembling, as Yara got up, and flung herself to the woman’s side, and enfolded her tightly in an embrace. “Dany, Dany… You, you know, you might be able to have children with Daario, we…”

“Not now. There is only half of my life left. Even if that witch was a liar, she’s been trued in her prophecy _now._ You don’t understand what this is like and I pray that you never do.” Still, for all how dreadful her words were, Daenerys calmed within Yara’s embrace. “This _is_ the way. I wanted my family from the beginning. I lost them all. My own nephew struck me with a dagger. This is what I can do, I can create a family. She is my blood, that is true enough, for we are both descendants of Jaehaerys and Alysanne. But it’s more than blood. I want her to be me. To be the hope of the people. To be compassionate to those I ruled before her. To free the slaves and to stand for justice and hope and renewed prosperity in these lands. To avoid my mistakes, and to be a Queen of Peace, because the righteous wars are won. Because, Yara, these wars will go on for as long as I live. The banners of House Targaryen are marching, stained with blood; a million people strain for liberty in our name, and wait the tramp of our boots. It’s unstoppable, I can’t stop it, I don’t want to stop it, it will go on until it gutters out of its own volition. And I cannot possibly leave it rudderless when I die. She had to be taught to be my political successor, as well as my kinswoman. And that meant being hard on her! It did, Yara, I’m not cruel to little girls, I’m not, I’m not, but I had… I had to get her ready. I will not live long like this, I can’t, I don’t want to. It’s too damned hard, I’m only half alive! You don't understand."

Her eyes looked frantic, hot with tears, revealing a soul trapped in a body, clawing for every moment of remembrance, and every hope of a future in which she had set her wrongs right. "Damn it, Yara, you don't even _begin_ to understand what I am missing, what I lack now. And I don't want to tell you. Pray you never know!"

Yara held Daenerys in her arms until the tears finished. Then she reached up and gently undid the clips on the mask, and pulled it away. Daenerys looked up sharply to her. “Damn it, Yara, why did you do that?”

“Because I’m not going to be afraid of a woman I’m in love with because of what a man did to her. I’m going to face it. You’re alive _now._ You’re here _now._ I am not letting what he did to you stand between us _ever._ I don't care what I know. You're still Dany to me, the shining Queen I met in Meereen. And I won't pass this chance up.”

“You and Daario just won’t give up on me,” Dany started laughing through her tears, breathing hard and shaking her head. “You should. I do not think I am even human anymore. God.” There was a terrible certainty in her voice, a creepy air that told Yara there was, indeed, something more to it. 

“Maybe you never were, dragon,” Yara grinned with her own eyes wet with tears. She chose to ignore what was ominous in Dany's voice. She would brave the fire. “But I loved you then, I loved you now. But you just had to bring him up!”

“You both promised to share,” Dany answered, possessive, a bit accusing, but also with a trace of a grin.

“Yes, well, expect some banter from both of us along the way.”

“Good. These are the last moments I feel normal in, now…”

“Well, then,” Yara laughed, and pulled Daenerys down on the couch. “I’ll go ahead and make you feel very _normal,_ indeed.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arya was eating a bowl of fish stew in the tavern on the waterfront at Pentos, when she heard the news.

“The Dragon Queen is reborn, in Volantis” said a man on the next table to his fellows. “The Red priests declared it in their temple”. They argued back and forth whether such a thing was possible, most of them treating it as a fable, put about by the freed slaves who had seized power in that city. She felt sick, with fear and horror. She had seen the Dead return to life, all too often. Her brother had been brought back to life by a Red Priestess. Daenerys Targaryen had walked into a fire with three stones, and emerged with three dragons. If anyone could return from the land of the dead, it would be her. No, she knew that what she heard was the truth. The very idea chilled her to the marrow. She had fled through the streets of Kings Landing, the day that dragon fire had been unleashed on it. From time to time, she still dreamed of the firestorm that had raged through the city, the sheets of orange and green flame that burned hundreds of feet into the sky. Her brother and sister, the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms, none would be safe from the Queen’s fury and vengeance.

Not that her family had been blameless, nor she herself, for that matter. She, Bran, and Sansa had all favoured making use of Daenerys, before disposing of her. Her two siblings had persuaded her that Jon had been seduced by a whore, a woman who was a threat to all of them. She had been disturbed, at first, to learn how steeped in treason the pair were, but that day at Kings Landing had surely proved them right, hadn’t it? She left a silver coin with the innkeep, and made her way back towards the docks. A year ago, she had left the Seven Kingdoms, sailing West. She had even reached the three islands discovered by Lady Elissa Farman, Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys. However, rough seas, and terrific storms had convinced her that she and her crew would only perish if they persisted voyaging further West. Supposedly, Lady Farman had sailed around the world on _Sun Chaser. _The ship had been constructed in Braavos, and she wondered if the plans were still deposited there, in the maritime archives. So, she had changed her plans, and sailed back to the Narrow Sea, returning to that city. She had even found the plans, although when she enquired of local shipbuilders, she had discovered that the cost of building a replica was far beyond her means. She had used most of her remaining funds to purchase trade goods, intending to exchange them in Tall Trees Town for timber, always much in demand at Braavos. A profitable voyage might give her the funds she needed.__

____

She had heard something very nasty in Braavos, however. One night in a tavern, she had listened as a group of sailors had angrily denounced her own sister, Queen Sansa. Cautiously, she had engaged them in conversation, and could scarcely believe her ears. It turned out they had intercepted a Tyroshi slave ship on the high seas, and liberated two hundred captives. There was nothing strange about that. The city was founded by escaped slaves, and she well knew that their descendants treated slavers as pirates, quite rightly. What had shocked her was their claim that they had been sold by her sister. Would Sansa really sink that low? Never. She had schemed and fought for her people's freedom. It had to be untrue, a lie put about by her enemies, but it was unsettling that people would think such things about the Northern Queen. She had heard ugly stories too, about her brother's regime in Kings Landing. Well, all kings made enemies, she supposed.

____

She thought more on these matters as she walked back to her ship, and then she had her answer. Plainly, the agents of the Dragon Queen were spreading lies about her brother and sister. Of course she would be eager to discredit them, before she launched her war of revenge. The monster had to be put down for good. A million deaths weren't enough for her. She would sail for Volantis, take the face of a guard or servant, then, when the chance arose, rid the world of the woman for ever. She climbed on board her own ship, _Spitfire_ and summoned her first mate, Dagmar.

____

”We sail for Volantis, not the Summer Isles,” she informed him. He frowned. 

____

”You won’t get much for your cargo, there. You’ll be lucky to break even, at the best of times. And, the times could hardly be worse. There's talk of a slave revolt, and wilder stories than that.” 

____

”Doesn’t matter. I need to get there. I'll pay you and the crew to sail back home, once I've sold the cargo. I think I'll be staying there for quite a while." The man shrugged, as it if was all one to him. Well, he'd still draw his pay, after all. After he left, she drew Needle, and whetted the blade. With any luck, she'd get the chance to drive it through the Dragon Queen's throat. 

____

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Val does not appear in the show. In the books, she is a seior, among the Free Folk, and a distinguished prisoner at Castle Black. She is beautiful and she and Jon are both attracted to each other.
> 
> 2\. Lady Elissa Farman was an explorer from Fair Isle, a part of the Westerlands long influenced and ruled by the Ironborn, and the lover of Queen Rhaena Targaryen. They broke up very angrily, when she wished to resume exploring. She stole three dragon eggs, and sold them in Braavos to raise funds to build Sun Chaser, and explore the world. There is every likelihood that those are the three eggs that Daenerys hatched. Lord Colys Velaryon travelled to Asshai, years later, and saw Sun Chaser docked there, implying that she circumnavigated the world, although her own fate is unknown.
> 
> 3\. Braavos not only outlaws slavery, but treats slave trading as a crime worldwide, like piracy, both pirates and slavers being hostes humanum generis. Therefore, Braavosi vessels will attack slavers on the high seas, and free their captives.


	8. The Obligations of Queens

Tyrion greeted the Master of Whisperers, Lord Allyron, in the Tower of the Hand. He had been been fellated by the wife of a prominent prisoner, a short while previously, one of the many perks of his job. He had yet to decide whether to grant her husband a reprieve. He shooed her out of his chambers, as the other man arrived.

“My lord, how can I assist you?” he asked, pouring them both wine, from a golden flagon, on a side table. His servants knew to keep the flagon endlessly refilled.

“I have news of Arya Stark.” Arya Stark. The one member of that family that remained an enigma to him. She had played no active role in the betrayal of Daenerys, although she was loyal to her siblings. Unlike them, she seemed to be completely lacking in ambition.

“I thought she was sailing around the world.”

“So did I, but at some point, she returned to Pentos. Apparently, she intends to sail for Volantis. I can’t imagine she wants to side with the Dragon Queen.”

“I should think not. The wretched woman terrifies her. She trained in the House of Black and White, you know. I can ask the King’s Grace for more details, but I believe Arya Stark can take forms. If she needs funds, we could instruct our agents to offer her a substantial sum to assassinate Daenerys for good. She’d probably do it for free, come to think of it, but in my experience, a man or woman who’s well paid is a damn sight more reliable than one who isn’t. And, she’ll need money if she has to bribe people to get close to her.”

“It would be money well spent” agreed Allyron. Then, “I believe the whore intends to conquer the remaining slave cities between Volantis and Meereen. I’ve had word that her army has marched in that direction. Sooner or later, I expect she’ll reach that city. You were in touch with the Sons of the Harpy, weren’t you?”

“I was. Not all of them were wiped out, by any means, when she returned to Meereen. We could put Arya in touch with them. If the bitch is killed, they’d have a good chance of retaking the city. A prolonged war in the region would suit us very well. No one would think of coming West. You know” he said after musing for a while “if we were to make further funds available, then perhaps we could assist the slavers to revolt.”

“Queen Sansa ought to contribute, I think. She’s been selling her enemies as slaves, according to my sources”.

“Really?” Tyrion was surprised, but then continued, “It’s sensible really. She’s short of funds, and this is one way of filling her treasury. She’s a much harder woman than I thought. She’s a lot like Cersei, really.” He had loathed his sister, but admired her, too. Her death had been another reason to kill Daenerys. She had been a Lannister, after all.

“Why don’t we do the same?” the other man asked. “We could make a fortune. That is, the Kings’s Grace could make a fortune. And, we’d be getting rid of the King’s enemies.”

“Well, I’ll certainly put it to him, before the meeting. Come to think of it, we really ought to ally with the Eastern slave powers. They all have an interest in seeing Daenerys Targaryen destroyed for good. You know, I used to groan inwardly, whenever that woman would start prattling on about the evils of slavery. Yes, they may be chattels, but our Smallfolk aren’t treated much differently. Without their masters to look after them, and most of them do have a vested interest in seeing they are well cared for, most of these slaves would be quite incapable of fending for themselves. And, for some men to prosper, others must serve. That’s just the way things are.”

Allyron nodded at these wise words, before asking “What do you think the Lord Commander will say?”

“She’s dumb as a post. She’ll probably look very shocked, and protest, and then just return to her duties. We have the measure of her, I think.” They both laughed at the truth of this.

“And, I suppose the Grand Maester will be shifty and evasive, but eventually come round to the idea”.

“We know him well. He enjoys the fruits of office, far too much to make a stand. I mean, they hate him at the Citadel, and why not? He’s totally unqualified for his position. He never even qualified as Maester, let alone Archmaester. Without the King’s backing, they’d throw hm out in a day. He serves entirely at the pleasure of the King’s Grace, and he knows it.”

Allyron got up and left. The Small Council was due to meet in a couple of days. As it turned out, it would be King Brandon who surprised him.

* * *

Elaena was awakened by the insistent shaking of a handmaiden. The girl, a freed Volantene slave, was like the others enormously loyal to Daenerys, and being around them sometimes felt like she was always being surveilled. Kinvara, though, once hearing her make a muttered remark to that effect, had fixed her with a terrible stare and explained how the people of Westeros were now suffering through something unimaginably worse.

“Lady Elaena, Lady Elaena… The Queen needs your presence, immediately.”

Elaena groaned, and belted a skirt over her night-gown, pulling over an outer tunic as she walked, just finishing it as they left the tent and went to a larger pavilion, lit by oil lamps, in front of the Queen’s tent. Yara fell in with her as she walked.

“So, Sword, do you know anything yet?”

“No—and you, Your Grace?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought you slept in the Queen’s chambers,” Elaena dared, as they moved briskly.

“Nobody does. Only Quaithe and Kinvara are allowed in them when the Queen retires for the night,” Yara answered distantly. “Even when I am present in them, I leave eventually. She has suffered, and I don’t begrudge her the privacy she craves. You’d best do the same.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Together the two, with their attendants, arrived at the pavilion. Daenerys was already up and perfectly composed; Elaena immensely admired this talent she had developed, of seeming fully awake, and always ready and dressed in her fine royal attire and mask, for any occasion. She tried to emulate it, but it was too much of a war with a natural sleepiness in her case, which she had come to think was part of being a lazy noblewoman, that she could not quite part with.

“Queen Yara, Elaena,” the Queen acknowledged, turning around from where she had just spoken with Grey Worm, and looking at the clay model of Mantarys that had been prepared from the scouting information, much of it gathered by Elaena herself. “We have received a message from inside the city. The enslaved have risen at the presence of our Army.”

Yara looked to Daenerys briefly, then back down at the clay model. There was a tight expression on her face. “Have they been able to seize one of the gate-houses?”

“No, they have not.” Daenerys voice was quiet, but grim.

“They’re being massacred inside the walls?” Yara asked next, but it was more of a statement than a question.

“Yes, they are,” Daenerys agreed.

“You woke us up to storm the city?” Yara put a hand on the hilt of her sword, avoiding looking at Daenerys, now.

“I did. You have a plan for the seaward assault already.”

“We’re not ready to implement it yet. Our blood will run in rivers red, just like a bard would sing.”

“It already is. Those are our people inside the walls, Yara.” There was a faint echo of the plaintive voice of a girl. There was the definite sound of the iron and resolute voice of a Queen.

“Didn’t say no,” Yara answered, and looked up. “Grey Worm, choose a position along the walls to assault, including one of the gates, with the Army, and all of the ready siege artillery that can be positioned to support. Elaena can drop messages from Drogon ordering those fighting inside the walls to head in that direction, if they obey the instructions and congregate, they might manage to threaten the enemy’s defenders along the walls. Together, that’s all of the diversion that we’re going to get on such short notice, I think.”

“Agreed,” he acknowledged grimly. “We can bring the Unsullied up in the reserve, in case God and Fortune favour us and give us a gate, then I could lead them in and quickly end it.”

“Aye, that’s the right use for them,” Yara nodded tautly, and studied the model along the water intensely. “I can bring my fleet almost up to the inner wall. We’ll pack two hundred men aboard each Longship, since the distance is so short. Less than a mile. That will let us land a first wave of eight thousand. Lady Elaena, I need you to get in close along the walls. But you will need to do it at the last minute, at the place I instruct. If you use Drogon to open the walls too soon, I will be plain with you… They will have men positioned inside these black-rock buildings on the inside of the walls, and they will ambush my men from three sides, and the fire will spread slowly. We don’t even know how long it will take a Dragon to burn through them yet.”

“The books say it can be done,” Elaena shivered.

Yara met her eyes and didn’t let her go. “Do they say how long?”

“No, just that a dragon can melt even black rock, Your Grace,” she acknowledged.

“Yeah. Thought so. So. You’ll come in close, and you’ll attack the wall at a point we designate. We’ll signal you with flags. We can’t let them establish an interior line, it would make it impossible for us to break through until the massacre is complete.”

Elaena nodded tightly. “I’ve memorised the Valyrian codes.”

“Good, my men were taught them from the same books. We’ll make it work.” She patted Elaena’s shoulder, and then grinned to Daenerys. It was a grim thing. “If not today then tomorrow, Daenerys,” she said with the privilege of one Queen to another in public.

“I can’t ask for more,” Daenerys looked down with her masked face. “It will be terrible enough as it is, but it’s already terrible inside the city, I am sure. Go, and know that every minute is costing us lives.” It was like she trembled with a nervous energy, the flame of Rh’llor, and wanted the battle to begin at once.

“Your Grace,” Grey Worm said, “I’m sure Queen Yara will choose to move fast enough to save as many lives as we can, but also deliberately enough to keep our casualties as light as she can. And we can do nothing at all if we fail to break through.”

The Dragon Queen nodded. “You are right. I leave it to your discretion of when to launch the attack on the Sea Walls, Yara. Elaena, you will have your message pouches written in a flash. We will prepare many, since the chance of putting one in the hands of a literate slave is so low. And if you have any targets of opportunity…”

“Drogon will easily bear two passengers, Your Grace, beyond myself. Send crack archers with me. They may kill a few officers and men of substance, I can bring a bag of darts to drop as well. But I fear flame, lest I start the entire city to burning and kill more than we save in the ires.”

Daenerys grimaced. “You are right. Grey Worm, make the arrangements. Yara, when your fleet begins to pull for the walls, we will recall Elaena, and send her in low over the water, to give the enemy as little warning as possible. We will set the forest near the city on this flank aflame, the wind has been blowing steadily from the North again. That hurt us in our last fight, but here, it will screen the movements of your fleet.”

Yara saluted, and spun around. She offered a grin to Elaena as they went their separate ways. “Don’t worry, kid, you’ll do fine. I’ll see you on the sea wall.”

* * *

In fact, to storm the city was exceedingly dangerous, and it had filled Yara with disquiet. She knew well the number of men that would be lost even just attacking the single course of walls along the waterfront. The buildings, however, provided her the path to victory.

They steered heavily laden ships, stripped of their masts, sails, rigging, supplies and even cooking stoves, to carry more men, packed in cheek to jowl. They manoeuvred them through the stream of smoke coming from the burning forest, keeping them in the plume of smoke for as long as they could, until the sea tower which terminated the city’s outer walls reared up close, battered and chipped around the base from centuries of ill-maintained exposure to the waves on the lake, surrounded by the riprap which had protected it to date, coated in blooms of red algae. God knew if it had always been so in the lake.

Drums boomed long, alerting the fleet to manoeuvre around the sea tower. As they cleared it, their ships were now screened by the walls themselves. Only the men on the towers and crenellations of the Sea Walls would be able to see them, dimly, through the ruins of the great warehouses which had once held all of the produce of North Valyria, travelling south to the Fourteen Fires.

Now, those cavernous ruins would be the fall of Mantarys. They were built of black rock, and that tremendous fused stone had made them last long beyond their abandonment. The Longships pushed on, into what had been the streets before the level of the lake rose. It was only when they grounded out, on the smooth surface of Valyrian paving stones, as perfectly fitted as a dedicated launch for boats, that the longships drifted in until their bows ground out with a scraping and scuffing across rock.

“To the walls, men!” The order would echo from many a Captain’s throat that day. Forward, where the water was swallow—the oarsmen still working the oars to keep them grounded long enough for the troops to land—wave after wave, man after man, leaping down and splashing through the water. Yara swept forward, encouraging her men on and over the side, until she too leapt down from the gunwales to splash through the warm water and at last onto the dry paving stones, organising a rush of men forward toward the walls.

To the walls they advanced, but they did not assault them. Instead, they spread out along the walls, to spread out the defenders as well. They moved the bulk of their troops into the warehouses. And it was there that Yara and the other Captains who were learned men went to work, with the Engineers from Volantis. They went up _into_ the Warehouses, into their upper parts, and began to sound the roofs.

As the engineers worked, Yara could hear the sounds of arrows flying and hitting pavement, of rocks being cast down. As the overall commander she had to make the choice quickly and efficiently. It all came down to the judgement of which roof would support the dragon.

* * *

Her day had started hours ago, and the waiting was more exhausting than daring danger. First she had delivered the messages—she had led a team of archers on Drogon’s back, irritated at the passengers who had no link to the Rider he had grudgingly trusted—they had picked at men from the sky, but in truth, she felt like it had been only a little effort. She had dropped darts on the men leading the troops of Mantarys against the slaves. But it was nothing like what could be accomplished by flame.

The messages, though, there had been enough literate slaves to respond to those. She saw them converge on the walls. She saw the dispositions of the troops change. And Elaena saw, too, circling above, the imposing promise of doom, the streets that were slick with red blood. She saw the forms in them, of mangled bodies that would never rise again, barring some terrible dread magic. She could smell, too, the horrifying scent of the bodies from where several structures had had large numbers of slaves pinned in them by the troops, and set alight, to intimidate the others. That smell was worse than any sight, even of those bodies strung up from columns and walls by wire that worked through their flesh.

It was a smell which Elaena, as a dragonrider who burned her enemies to death, had become habituated to, already. Her archers wished to retch, but she did not, and returning for food—there was no time for sleep—she had left them behind with the Queen’s camp. It was time to prepare to burn, and she wished for no distraction, to remind her of the consequences of her dragon’s breath.

It was going to be hard enough without any self-doubt.

Flying above them all, Drogon had turned back out over the lake, and circled, with the smoke from the fires between Mantarys and his immense bulk. Elaena drank from her canteen, and ate jerky, and watched the fleet vanish into the smoke. Then, she began her count-down, by marking the angle of the sun in the sky with a fixed rod. After an hour and a half had past, she guided Drogon through the smoke.

On the other side, she could see the Longships pulling away to get the second wave of troops for the assault on the docks. The walls were manned, but between this and Grey Worm’s assault with the Volantene troops, the enemy could not yet be sure was the main assault. She swept in, searching…

 _There!_ Her heart thrilled. A knot of men, and one woman, stood on the top of one of the roofs to the great warehouses. They had their signal flags up, and she nudged Drogon on to rush closer. His abrupt approach to the city was low and fast.

Shouts of alarm would be spreading now, as it became impossible to hide the enormous dragon. The only defence that the Mantaryans would have consisted of the expectation that Drogon would kill the Ironborn and Volantene troops before the walls just as effectively as he would kill anyone on the walls, and shatter the rock. They would know, too, that it would be hard even for a dragon to break through the walls. It would take time, and in the midst of those passes, the city would be set alight.

They were not prepared for Elaena to land on the roof of the warehouse. They were not prepared for her to direct Drogon’s flame to first sweep the top of the wall, killing all the men, destroying all the ballistae, which might have threatened her. The roof, sounded by the engineers, held under the enormous weight of the dragon. There, he was not high enough, as he would be flying, for the men behind the walls to engage him with portable ballistae, or fire at her with arrows. Here, she was protected from the enemy, and more importantly, it allowed Drogon to be precise enough in attacking just the wall, directly in front of him, from a stationary position—so there were no collateral casualties to their own forces.

His flames tore along the courses of the walls that their ancestors had built. What they had created, they could destroy; the black rock walls glowed until they were cherry red, and then in the place she had targeted, they began to crack and disintegrate. Blast after blast of fire tore through them, more powerful than any normal blaze. The walls gradually melted away, black stone changing to red and golden lava, which poured away in runnels . The men on the other side began to panic and flee. The reinforcements to the annihilated positions on the walls broke and fled. Even Black Walls could fall before the Dragons that had created them.

* * *

Daenerys Stormborn rode on her white horse into the city, with Kinvara holding the reins. Mantarys was like no other. It had been a direct colony of the Old Freehold. The vast Black Rock towers in the middle were meant for dragons with their riders—for Dragonlords, coming to rule here, or even just take the airs off the mountains to the north, to enjoy the lake.

Here, the slaves were as Valyrian as the masters, as Valyrian as she was. For the first time in her life, she was surrounded by a sea of celebrating slaves who were of her own ethnicity.

And there were monsters. There were men with reptilian eyes, a reproduction of a dragon’s in miniature. Others with bits of scale, beyond the more common ones with extra limbs or eyes, or two people fused together, with two heads that spoke separately.

Someone else might be horrified at them, and in truth, some of the monstrosities did turn Grey Worm’s stomach, did trigger his natural disgust, as it would any man. With it, though, was pity that he was seeing people who had been twisted by such powerful magic—and then, it had been used as an excuse to make them slaves.

Many, of course, the vast majority, even, were perfectly whole. But the city’s name was perfectly real, in truth; the city of monsters had those whose forms blended the reptile and the mammal.

 _Missandei would have been fearless around them, and fascinated,_ he thought with distant longing. Her memory was maintained by their effort, and he had no doubt, that in his Queen’s eyes, her face was often present.

But she would have loved to have been here on this day, and it was never to be.

The bodies of dead masters lay torn apart in the streets. But their children were being presented to the soldiers, and to Daenerys herself, as they advanced. The magnetic power of her presence and the promise of liberation that she contained was bringing order to the slave revolts. Even those who gave themselves over to rage, and imagined killing the children, would not touch them, as a gesture of thanks and loyalty to the Breaker of Chains.

The promise had become self-perpetuating.

The Red Priests and Priestesses with the Army were preaching the gospel of salvation in the flame. Many, in the air of mingled relieve, revenge, and celebration, listened. A wave of religious conversions would be sweeping through all the liberated lands, and though Grey Worm would not follow it, he respected the impulse.

Then he noticed Quaithe peel away, and turn to quietly enter a temple carved in the form of the wings of a dragon becoming an arch. Someone, it seemed, still had business with the bloody Gods of Old Valyria.

* * *

Grand Maester Tarly was a frightened man. Well, all his life he’d been a frightened man. He’d been frightened of his father, frightened of the men of the Nights Watch, frightened of what lay beyond the Wall. He had no idea how he had survived the Battle of Winterfell, where he’d spent the fight alternately hiding, or screaming with terror, while pissing himself; there was a nasty joke circulating at the Citadel, he well knew, that he’d only survived because the Dead had taken one look at him, and decided that they didn’t want him in their ranks. And every night now, he was haunted by dreams of the Dragon Queen returning to Kings Landing. She would not be merciful, he knew. He had played his part in bringing her down, filled with anger and spite at the deaths of his father and brother, and she would not have forgotten. He only hoped that King Brandon had powers that would counter hers. Before the meeting, Tyrion and Allyron had assured him that they had plans to deal with her. He trusted they would succeed.

He entered the Small Council Chamber to see that Tyrion, Allyron, Bronn, Brienne, Vargo Hoat, the Master of Laws, and Ser Aurane Waters, the new Master of Ships, were already present. The King sat in his wheelchair. Often, he allowed them to deliberate, intervening only when he wished, but now he opened the discussion.

“We face two open sources of treason. The Iron Islands and Dorne. The first, I expect my royal sister to handle. As you are aware, Yara Greyjoy has taken the Iron Fleet to Volantis. Therefore, she is in rebellion against us. But, she has left the Iron Islands vulnerable to attack. I have therefore urged Queen Sansa, to achieve a *complete* solution to the problem posed by the Ironborn. She will provide the soldiers, the Reach and the Westerlands the ships. We have agreed that the entirety of the population will be …..resettled to the East. They will be set to work, in ways that are beneficial to humankind.”

There was an awkward silence, before Lord Commander Brienne piped up. “Might I know what “resettled” entails?”

Bronn laughed. “I reckon the people we’ve executed in the camps have been well and truly “resettled.”

“It means as I say” replied the King. “They will be set to work in whatever manner their new masters deem appropriate.”

“Their masters?” Brienne looked as if she had swallowed a frog.

“There are tens of thousands of them” replied the King, blandly. “We cannot hope to feed them all. Fortunately, there are Eastern merchants who are willing to take care of this problem. “

“His Grace is right, as ever” remarked Sam, determined to win his master’s approval. “Everyone knows Queen Sansa is short of the money she needs to purchase food from the Reach. This way, she gets the money she needs, we get our share of the profits, the merchants of the Reach get paid, and the Seven Kingdoms are rid of the Ironborn for good. Thus do we all prosper.” There was a general murmur of agreement, around the Council table, Bronn, Vargo, and Allyron slapping the table to signify their approval, save for Brienne.

“Your Grace, this is a vile proposal. Slavery has been a crime and a sin for centuries in this land.”

“Times change, Lord Commander, times change. Really, Ser Brienne, you have spent months serving my government; you have accepted that the Realm’s enemies must be executed, imprisoned, tortured, kept under surveillance, yet now, you draw the line at resettlement. I find that…..truly remarkable. I expect there to be unanimous agreement to this proposal among my councillors. I shall have your agreement to it now, or else I will have it ……later.”

There was a long silence, and Sam felt a chill in the air, before “Agreed, your Grace” muttered Brienne, obviously very unhappy.

“Now, to the Dornish” continued the King. “I have seen a future, in which the Dragon Queen and her followers land in Dorne, and are hailed as liberators by the population. That way lies disaster. We must ensure that we hold Dorne in an iron grasp. Dornish military power must be broken for ever. “

The idea made Sam nervous. He knew enough history to remember that invasions of Dorne rarely prospered. He reached for a flagon of wine, and poured, in order to steady his nerves.

“Your Grace, Is this wise? Remember the fate of the Young Dragon, or Queen Rhaenys for that matter. They both came to grief in Dorne.” Tyrion nodded, and joined in.

“Your Grace, as I see it, there are three routes to invade Dorne. Through the Boneway, out of the Stormlands; through the Prince’s Pass, out of the Reach, or by sea. The Dornish will find it easy to block both of the passes. As for the third, we cannot launch an invasion by sea, if our ships are assisting Queen Sansa to take the Iron Islands. And even supposing we took the main settlements, Sunspear and the Shadow City, Starfall, Plankytown, the Dornish have long proved adept at waging partisan warfare. So many invaders have come to grief in that country”.

“Lord Tyrion, Grand Maester, I am familiar with the history, “ replied the King. “I would not be suggesting this course were it not absolutely essential. You will have one advantage denied to previous invaders. I can see from afar, the dispositions of the Dornish soldiers. “

“I will have the advantage, your Grace?” Sam saw Tyrion swallow nervously.

“You will lead the invasion from the Stormlands, Lord Tyrion. You will be accompanied by the soldiers of the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and three thousand of the Raven’s Claws, led by Faithful Urswyck. You, Ser Bronn, will lead the invasion from the Reach, using your own forces, along with a further division of Raven’s Claws. Neither of you should have any difficulty gathering sellswords, eager for plunder. I shall provide you with detailed instructions of the routes which you will both follow. You will use mountain paths to circumvent the main Dornish armies, who, as you have surmised, will be expecting an attack through the passes. To any other invader, it would be madness to stray from the main roads, but you will both have the advantages granted by my prescience. You, Ser Bronn, will take Skyreach and Starfall. You, Lord Tyrion, will take Yronwood, Godsgrace, Sunspear and the Shadow City. The Dornish will undoubtedly offer resistance, even after their armies have been defeated. You both have my authority to conduct whatever reprisals you see fit. We can always replace the Dornish dead with fresh stock. I shall expect you to fulfil your duties with zeal. Your soldiers may keep whatever they take from the local population.

“That will certainly make them happy your Grace” said Bronn, enthusiastically. He grinned “Do they get to keep the Dornish women as well?”

“Of course” responded the King. Sam could see Tyrion remained unenthusiastic. Well, he knew his histories as well as he did, but really, there was no choice, if he wished to remain Hand. “Of course, your Grace, I shall prepare the invasion immediately” he responded.

“Good” concluded the King. “We have accomplished something, today. These two peoples have been a thorn in the side of the Realm for centuries. We shall end them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Part of the dialogue at the Small Council meeting is adapted from Conspiracy, a gripping HBO TV play about the Wannsee Conference. It seemed appropriate.


	9. Vultures

The Dornish would never forget the Year of Horror, as it would come to be known, the invasion of their country led by Tyrion Lannister and Bronn Stokeworth. Using mountain paths, the invaders bypassed the main Dornish armies in the Boneway and Prince’s Pass, before scattering them. From the outset, the invasion was marred by atrocities. Castles and villages were burned to the ground; mass executions of civilians were ordered at the slightest sign of resistance; women and children were used as human shields, driven before the invaders as they assaulted strongholds; rape was a matter of routine. Groves of citrus and olives, along the Vaith and Greenblood Rivers, were chopped down or burned, acts of wanton destruction which added famine to the sufferings of the people. Within a month, the main strongholds of the country, Sunspear and the Shadow City, Plankytown, Starfall, Godsgrace, Yronwood, were all held by the invaders.  


But, it was one thing to conquer Dorne, quite another to hold it.  


The Prince of Dorne, Mors Martell, fled Sunspear for oases in the deep desert. Most of the nobility, and many of the smallfolk, followed his example. More than fifty thousand men held Dorne, yet found themselves subject to a constant war of attrition. Bands of horsemen would sweep down from the Red Mountains, or ride up out of the desert, wiping out small detachments of soldiers, supply trains, garrisons, and then disappearing long before retribution caught up with them. Men who were billeted in the towns would be stabbed by masked assailants, or poisoned in wineshops and taverns. Collaborators with the invaders were kidnapped by the rebels. Terrible tales began to circulate about the fate of such captives. 

Archmaester Valyn put it best, when he wrote the definitive account of the war:  


" _the war in Dorne was a miserable experience for the invaders. Many soldiers were acutely malnourished. For them, replacement troops meant dead friends. Ultimately, many began to feel that the best chance of survival lay on the opposite side of the Red Mountains. Most felt absolute joy on leaving Dorne. Others took matters into their own hands, deserting the army, despite the risk of execution. Some even committed suicide.  
Inevitably, the occupiers took cruel revenge on the inhabitants. Despite the constant attrition, the Dornish lacked a sufficient strike force to drive the invaders from Dorne’s main towns and strongholds. The tide of war would only turn definitively with the return of Daenerys Targyaryen and her army of liberation." _  
________________________________________________  
Lady Gwyneth Yronwood twisted uncomfortably in her saddle. She had ridden with a warband of a hundred and thirty, in the early hours of the morning, from the oasis where she, her family, and many of their people had taken refuge. The Sun was now in the sky, and she sweltered in the heat, as sweat ran down the base of her spine. They had left the deep desert, and rode through scrubland, where sage and succulents grew. Rabbits and other desert creatures skittered out of their way as they rode on. She wore a shirt of light chain mail, greaves, and a half helm, wrapped with cloth to reduce the heat, but still she sweated heavily. Not that her comfort mattered to her. She came bearing a gift to the invaders; the gift of justice.  
__

__By her reckoning, they were about five miles from their target, a huge supply convoy, protected by three hundred and fifty of the Raven’s Claws, the worst of the invaders. Savage men, who treated war as an excuse for murder, rape, and robbery. This was far too large a target for the forces at her own disposal, but they had an ally. A man who had once worked in an abbatoir, but who was now a legend among the rebels; the one they called El Matarife in the Rhoynish tongue, The Slaughterman. Everything depended upon the timing. If the man failed to turn up, she’d have no choice but to ride back into the desert. Her people yearned for vengeance. Before leaving the oasis, they had chanted the old tales together, of being driven from the Rhoyne; of Garin’s sacrifice for his people; of their sufferings as they voyaged across the world, led by Nymeria; of coming to Dorne, and defending themselves from invaders. _ _"Never to forgive; never to forget: if I forget thee, Oh Chroyane, may my right hand lose her cunning, may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth" she recited to herself, as she rode. _ _  
___ _ __

___They ascended a low ridge, which shielded them from their target, who travelled the long road from Yronwood to the Greenblood. They had chosen the place of attack carefully. The ridge ensured that no tell-tale dust cloud would alert their quarry. They rode across the mesa, and then galloped down the reverse slope, their quarry no more than a mile and a half distant. Scores of wagons were strung out along the road for hundreds of yards. Soldiers and carters were swarming about like an anthill that had been disturbed as they thundered towards them. Unfortunately, their commander knew his business. The Raven’s Claws were disciplined, most of them clambering into the carts, many reaching for bows. A band of cavalry formed up at the head of the column, ready to counter-attack.  
_ _ _

___Gwyneth and her riders raced down the length of the supply column, no more than a hundred yards distant, hammering shaft after shaft at them with their composite bows. Men and beasts went down, but the defenders were taking a toll as well. She saw the man in front of her fall from his horse, an arrow in the side of his neck. Worse, the enemy horsemen were now riding hard for her band, roughly even in numbers. She prepared to order her men to wheel and turn back for the desert, only to hear shouting in the distance. The enemy horsemen ground to a halt, looking back, nervous. Then she heard the name being called _ _"El Matarife, El Matarife!" _ _“Charge them!” she screamed, and they spurred forward.  
___ _ _ __

___To begin with, it was not a fight but a slaughter. Caught between two enemies, her opponents panicked. She drove her sabre into the mouth of one, then removed it neatly, before giving a good hard cut into the face of the next, staving in the nose piece of his half-helm. He reeled back in the saddle, clutching his hands to the ruin of his face. But, then they rallied. One bearded giant barrelled his horse into hers, before hammering the pommel of his sword into her helmet. She saw stars, but managed to drag her horse out of his way. Snarling, he struck again, bludgeoning his sword into her right shoulder. The mail held, but the blow was agony; she wondered if her sword arm was fractured. She took the sabre with her left hand, but she was a dead woman, she knew, feeling nauseous with pain, as the man circled her, preparing the killing stroke. But then she saw the most wonderful look of surprise on his face, just before a lance burst from his chest, wielded by one of El Matarife’s riders. Her head cleared a little, and she shouted her thanks to her saviour, before returning to the fight. It was savage, the horsemen crammed together, barely having room to thrust their swords. She managed a hard chop into the shoulder of an enemy, before driving the pommel into his face, then leaning back in her stirrups to avoid a lance thrust from another rider. Quite suddenly, the Raven’s Claws broke, as the newcomers and her own men overwhelmed them. She saw a band of enemy horse galloping back up the road to the Yronwood, desperate to escape, leaving their comrades in the lurch. Let them. The nearest enemy garrison was half a day’s ride away. She rode back to the supply column. Here and there, bands of determined men fought the partisans, but were steadily cut down. A number had surrendered, most unwisely, she thought. Their dying would be prolonged.  
___

___She spotted Ned Fowler, one of her lieutenants, who had dismounted. “Help me down Ned, I’m hurt.” He assisted her to get down, before removing her mail shirt, and examining her arm. It was horribly bruised, but not fractured it seemed. “What are our losses?” she asked him.  
_ _ _

___“Eighteen dead, fifteen wounded, half of them badly. The enemy are dead, or fled, but we have about fifty Raven’s Claws taken prisoner, including their commander, as luck would have it. And a few score of the carters.” A great brute of a man approached her. Six and a half feet tall, built like a bear, face covered with black hair, El Matarife himself. He gave her a broad grin, and bowed with surprising grace.  
_ _ _

___“Lady Yronwood, it gladdens my heart to see you. The Seven have given us a great victory today.“ She curtsied in turn.  
_ _ _

___“We split the supplies, three parts to one, as agreed”.  
_ _ _

___They hadn’t agreed it, but his men outnumbered hers and there was no point starting a fight. He took a great draft from a wineskin in his hand and belched loudly, before adding “And, we have some captives to play with.” That was true enough. She heard the first screams, as the partisans got to work. She was used to this by now. The Raven’s Claws were being gelded, their tongues cut out, and then they were blinded, before being left to bleed to death, under the hot Sun. Some of them begged for the chance to join the rebels, but they just laughed at them. The carters, however, would be given the choice of joining them, or else face similar treatment. Most of them would follow the path of wisdom.  
Casually, El Matarife speared the eyes out of a couple of prisoners, before the commander of the Raven’s Claws was brought before him. “Your name, reptile?” he demanded.  
_ _ _

___“Ser Harys Horpe” the man replied, defiant.  
_ _ _

___Gwyneth saw El Matarife grin. “An anointed knight, serving with scum. Very well, knight, will you fight for your life?”  
_ _ _

___“As if you’d let me go” replied the other. The other man made a great show of appearing offended.  
_ _ _

___“As the Seven are my witness, if you defeat me, I shall set you free. If you kill me, my men will honour the bargain”. The other partisans nodded agreement. Ser Harys still looked sceptical “Come, ser, what have you to lose? Refuse my offer, and I shall give you to Lady Gwyneth Yronwood” he gestured to her. “She will make your dying last a moon’s turn.” She gave the prisoner a nasty grin.  
_ _ _

___“Very well, then” replied the captive, no doubt reasoning that any chance was better than none. El Matarife took out a bone-handled folding knife, with a curved blade, six inches long, and then nodded to one of his men, who handed a similar weapon to the prisoner. The partisans formed a large circle around the two men. She noted that Sir Harys was starting to look hopeful. "Fool that you are. Best cut your own throat, when you have a chance", she said to herself. Whatever the man’s skill at arms, she doubted if he was trained to the art of the knife fight.  
_ _ _

___Ser Harys struck hard and fast, at the outset, delivering a lunge that would have disembowelled the giant, were he unskilled. Instead, the man neatly side-stepped the thrust, before cutting down hard, gashing his opponent’s cheek. “One” chanted his followers. Gwyneth knew that the partisan was toying with his opponent. Again and again, Ser Harys struck, missing his opponent by a whisker, each time, and taking a cut in turn, on the face, the hand, the back of the neck. The count had reached six, before El Matarife darted in, grasping his opponent’s knife hand with his left, and then spearing out his right eye. As the man screamed, and clutched his hand to his face, he speared out the other.  
_ _ _

___“Now, the real fun begins” remarked one of the man’s followers to Gwyneth. By the time the count had reached forty, Ser Harys was a whimpering, moaning, mess, lashing out blindly as the partisans roared with laughter. Bored at last, his opponent knocked the knife from his hand, and neatly cut his throat.  
_ _ _

___“Good riddance to bad rubbish” he remarked to Gwyneth.  
_ _ _

____"A brute" thought Gwyneth, as she rode away, _"but Dorne needs brutes" _.  
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Daario’s troops, the Ghiscari in their new legions, the Volantenes, came down a dusty road from the east to the west. They had started out without much experience; they had ended their march, in Mantarys, as veterans, in a city which welcomed them. Most had been slaves themselves once; now they were an Army of Liberty.

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There was very little which could compare to the day they reached Mantarys, to discover that the Queen had taken the city already, and that, from Lhazar to the Rhoyne, Essos was free. The Army was heavy with loot, chickens and cattle driven before them; masses of camp followers handling every activity from the washing to foraging and cooking that could be thought of; new wives and sometimes children adopted by units. They were nothing fancy to look at, dust-streaked and dirty, but Daario had a giant grin on his face as he led them from horseback through the great black arches that marked the gates of Mantarys—his men had a cocky, confident air with sharp clear eyes that marked them as experienced fighting men.

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The tattered Targaryen banners fluttered proudly with victories. Worn flags which had waved above legions which had fought in four battles were more honoured than the resplendent ones which had hung over more pacific scenes. Pikes swayed and bobbed, and shields made a racket as their bearers tramped down black streets. They had come. Around them, the freedmen of Mantarys flooded their ranks, and they were met with the cheers, and pikes thrust into the air, of the Unsullied and the other Volantene legions now quartered in the city. The two armies mingled and what had begun as a military parade, now became a general celebration.

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By the time Daario reached the villa which Daenerys had occupied as her headquarters, he had flowers stuffed down near everything on his saddle and his person that would hold them, and his grin had only grown more complete. With a flourish, he dismounted, as the men roared with cheers for Queen and General, and stepped up to her, and knelt, and presented her a few of the flowers someone had stuffed into his boot.

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The world seemed very bright, indeed. They had carved a thoroughfare for freedom across a thousand miles of Essos. After giving the orders to his officers to arrange the quartering of the troops, he went inside the villa with her.

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The monsters of Mantarys were a whispered legend. Some said they came from the corruption and pollution and destruction of the Doom, twisting children in their mothers’ wombs. Others said they came from dark experiments, from blood magic worked by Valyrian sorceresses. Now he saw them in the flesh. These men were fit enough, and under arms. But they had been _changed_ in other ways, and it rested uneasily on the eyes.

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There was a natural revulsion that he forced down, quickly. Daenerys still saw it, and gently pulled Daario away. Her eyes were serious. “My love,” she spoke, “they are men as you are.”

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“It’s natural for a man to shy away from such that goes against nature,” Daario answered, a bit gruffly.

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She laughed softly and shook her head, moving to recline on one of the couches in the private chamber. “I’m a monster myself. I was a monster, I was always a monster; but now I am even more of one.”

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“You are _not,_ Dany, you are a lovely young woman, and you’ve still got a full and wonderful …”

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“No I don’t,” Daenerys’ voice now turned cold. “It is the power of the Lord that sustains me. My life is no longer like that of a mortal. I am a monster, and they are my monsters, and my compassion toward them will better their lots _long_ after I am gone, by mere example if nothing else. Daario, this will someday be the first of my realm’s cities.”

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Daario turned away in shame. “I’m sorry. I just don’t like thinking of what they’ve done to you, Dany. Your Grace.”

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“no, no, I’m _not that_ angry,” Daenerys insisted, trying to be gracious with her lover.

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“Dany.” Daario laughed ruefully. “I just—you are more than what’s been done to you.”

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“I am. But it doesn’t change that it has been done. The finest gift you can give me, Daario, is to be the instrument of this legacy I am building.”

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“And I will be. Until my own death, I’ll serve what you created. You will make this our capital?”

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“I will.” Within the mask, violet eyes closed. “Queen of Volantis. Queen of Meereen. Queen of Mantarys. It’s many titles to have. You took Tolos and Elyria intact?”

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“As intact as the fleets and soldiers could. I have garrisons in both.”

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“That is sufficient. Your Army marches like an Army of free men. It made me happy.” Daenerys rose again. “I will have food sent for you. Rest. We’ll discuss the political matters when we reach Meereen—when we are in a place to deal, finally, with my mistakes in Astapor and Yunkai.”

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“You won’t stay?”

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“The Lord sustains me.”

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Something about her answer sat very ill with him.

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Nonetheless, the food was brought in. With it came Elaena. In the months since he had seen her last, she had changed greatly. She was still young, but continued to grow in her girlhood. She had obviously been training at arms, and her fitness was already matched by few women. _Yara’s doing, certainly._

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She also had a certain poised confidence she had lacked before. She bore the flame symbol of the faith of Rh’llor on a chain about her neck. She kept her sword at her side, showing her privilege of bearing arms in the Queen’s presence, in her chambers; this showed Daenerys’ trust of her had reached new heights. And in breaches and tunic, light cloak and boots, she looked like an old fresco or painting of a dragon-riding woman of old, supremely confident, her hair pulled into a single dragonrider’s braid.

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_My, my, she’s grown up._ “Campaign has served you well, Lady Elaena,” he observed with a nod, and rose to let her sit at table with him. “Where is Queen Yara?”

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“Unfortunately, she was supervising repairs to the docks, and couldn’t return in time. I asked her, in hope of a future where the lake might serve for commerce again; a portage-way with greased skids and wheels worked by oxen may yet suffice for regular trade, and I wish to explore and discover who the inhabitants of Oros are. We have found many strange texts in Mantarys… There may yet be more to the south.”

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“I’d be wary if I were you. The last time a dragonriding girl flew near Valyria, it did not end well for her. The legend of Princess Aerea.”

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“Mmmn. Only Her Grace could command Drogon to fly to the Fourteen Fires, and if she wishes me dead so much, I’d have not the will to stop it. She is the Hammer of God. Also, I think there are other dangers nearer by.”

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“Why do you say this? I think merely for your closeness to the Queen, you could walk through this city naked without being harmed,” Daario laughed. 

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“Seriously, M’lord. It’s Her Grace’s advisor, Quaithe. The Shadowbinder. She has been visiting all the old temples of the old Valyrian Gods, and collecting texts in High Valyrian, of the most ancient kind. Also, it’s said that has left her quarters, and disappeared for hours at a time, during the nights in the city. I worry that in the end she may have an ulterior motive inimical to that of Our Queen.”

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“Has there been any cause to worry?”

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“No.” Elaena sighed. “Indeed, she saved Daenerys’ life with her archery at Caladros. But when we march to bring freedom and the true religion to Essos, I think she has a different aim.”

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While Daario agreed that the motives of the Shadowbinder were inscrutable, it was also true that Elaena just admitted that she had risked herself to save Daenerys’ life. Also, he didn’t really like Kinvara, his own approach to religion was decidedly more laid-back than that of the true believers, and he was more inclined to be considerate of the Shadowbinder simply because whatever her motives were, they were likely ones familiar to him. Religion simply wasn’t, and he could never quite wrap his mind around the queer combination of detachment from the world and practical intensity which marked the Red Priests. It certainly could lead to dangerous places. 

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“ I see you’ve learned about battle, and gained the Queen’s favour. I will advise you, however, that as a woman of rank, you’ve got to think for yourself. Don’t let the Priestesses do it all for you. If you want, I’d say Quaithe has fairly earned your asking her honestly. Of course, she might answer with a riddle,” he laughed, but then his expression grew serious again, quickly, sharply. “Still, I mean it. Her Grace never lets the Red Priests control her, even though she owes her life to their power. Believe in their faith, aye, but don’t let it dictate how you approach your duties. Especially since many of the Queen’s subjects are not, and may well never, be worshippers of Rh’llor.”

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“Yet our banners march inexorably…” Elaena cut herself off, pursing her lips. “Well. I will ask Quaithe, you have my word of that.”

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“ Good.” Daario chuckled and kicked back. “I understand the fervour you feel for your cause. Your life got turned upside down. You were offered dreams made true. But you will rise further if you keep your wits. That’s what Her Grace’s closest friend did. Freed from slavery in Astapor in what might as well have been a dream come true— but she never lost her composure and the almost unnatural sagacity of her advice for one of her age . They were almost as close as sisters. It was Queen Cersei who put her to death, before the gates of King’s Landing—what I have heard there, I don’t doubt, only because of Missandei’s death. But the city still deserved it. It fought past the right of a peaceful surrender. Still, Her Grace would have given them one anyway, if it weren’t for Missandei.”

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“You say that she was sagacious?”

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“Oh yes. It was queer at times, how wise she was for one so young, of her background. Separate yourself from your own fortunes, and share your observations honestly, and, well, you’ll never be Missandei, but you still might yet find yourself more useful still to the Queen.”

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“Thank you… Daario.” She flushed. “There is _so much._ I find it very hard not to get carried away. Her Grace wants me to dispense justice in Mantarys before we depart, in her name.”

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“Does she? Well, good. That will add some nuance to the world of the priests. It’s hard to sit a court without becoming a cynic.”

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Arya had heard little good about Volantis during the course of her voyage. At every port she put into, she had been told tales of horror; of women raped in public and murdered; of children thrown from balconies on to spears; of entire families butchered as they were driven down to the docks. It had never occurred to her that the freedmen might have a very different story to tell. By the time Spitfire docked at Volantis, she expected the city to be a bloody horror. It had only deepened her conviction that Daenerys Targaryen had to be slain for good.

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As they entered the mouth of the Rhoyne, she gasped at the sheer size of the city. It was larger even than Braavos, and vastly greater than Kings Landing. Piers and jetties stretched for miles, along both sides of the estuary. Great palaces and manses, with gardens leading down to the seafront, displayed the power of the wealthy. As she sailed upriver, she saw the Ninth Wonder of the World, the Long Bridge that spanned the Rhoyne, and joined the West of the city to the East, which lay behind massive walls of black stone. Everywhere, the triple-headed dragon banner of the Targaryens flew, the symbol she hated. Despite the vast size however, the number of ships was far fewer than at Braavos. She wondered at that. 

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Her vessel was approached by a cutter, with a uniformed customs officer in the bows, demanding her name and her business. “Cat Snow, from Braavos, with ships’ stores and household goods to sell” she replied, in the Valyrian tongue. He came on board with a couple of guards, to inspect the cargo, and levy a toll, which was light enough. “You’ll find decent lodgings in the Merchant’s House on Fishmongers’ Square; they won’t cheat you. If you’re looking for a buyer, you could do worse than the Widow on the Waterfront. She does her business in the common room. “ he told her, before returning to his own ship. She docked, and made her way to the inn. As she walked, she could see signs of violence. Here and there, buildings were half-ruined, and there were scorch marks on a number of others. Yet, the city itself seemed peaceful, as crowds went about their business. She saw guards patrolling the streets, but there was little sign of tension among the population. She took a room on the fourth floor of the inn, the cheapest lodging, but decent enough, and made her way to the Common Room. She took a pot of ale, and asked for the Widow. The innkeep pointed to a booth, guarded by four men. One of them told her to come back in an hour, so she took her supper, before returning. 

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She was ushered into the company of the Widow, an ancient, white-haired, woman, though still keen-eyed. After exchanging a few pleasantries, she asked Arya what she had to sell. She listed the items, and the other woman offered a price, subject to inspection. “That’s better than I expected” remarked Arya. 

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“I see you’re no merchant” remarked the other woman wryly. “A true merchant would have rejected my offer with scorn, and named an absurd figure. We would have haggled for an hour before agreeing a price.” 

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“I’m an explorer.” 

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“Indeed? You speak our tongue, but your name suggests you are from the North of the Seven Kingdoms. Some of your countrymen sail here on business. How long have you been abroad?” 

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“Just over a year.” 

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“I would stay here, if I were you. Your land is ruled by monsters.” 

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“Meaning?” 

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“The Queen in the North sells her own folk into slavery. The King in the South rules through terror.” Doubtless she had fallen for the lies of the Dragon Queen’s agents. 

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“People love to tell lies about other countries’ rulers. “ 

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“Ask your countrymen. You’ll meet some of them in this inn. They’ll tell you the same story. I met the worst of them, years ago. I wish I had gutted him.” 

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“Who?” 

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“The Imp of Lannister. The man who betrayed our Queen. Who commits all manner of crimes and sins in the name of his dark master.” Well, she had never trusted Tyrion one inch. How strange that this woman should have met him, though. “He was a prisoner then. He was taken to Meereen, and wormed his way into the Queen’s confidence. Yet even then, he was trying to reinstate slavery in that city, so the Red Clergy have told us.” 

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“Truly?” 

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“Oh yes, Now, we learn that he persuaded the Queen’s lover to murder her by treachery. The woman who saved his life and the lives of his people. ” 

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“She burned a city”, snapped Arya. “I was there, the day it happened.” The Widow gave her a hard stare. “Now, I begin to wonder why you are here. For vengeance perhaps? The Lord of Light raised her from the dead. You cannot fight His will. Millions of slaves owe their freedom to her. They would tear you apart, were you to raise your hand against her.” 

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“They say children were murdered, women raped, the day she took this city.” 

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“Many died who did not deserve to die, on that day. Some of them were even friends. I can’t deny it. But, very many more were murdered, raped, degraded, tortured, for centuries by their masters. They had much to avenge. I will not condemn them for raising their hands against their oppressors. Never again, will their heads and hands decorate the Long Bridge. You’ve seen this city. It’s peaceful now. The other slave powers have mounted an embargo, but they’ll fall to our Queen in time. She has taken Mantarys, I have heard, and freed its people. She will free the rest of the slave cities. The masters’ days are numbered. Our business is concluded. My agents will come to inspect your cargo tomorrow.” 

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She left the booth, and bought another drink. After a time, she heard men speaking in the common tongue, and approached them. They greeted her warmly enough. They had sailed from Gulltown, and no, they had no intention of returning home for a long while. It turned out, they loathed her brother and sister. One remarked “The Lannisters, Freys, Tyrells, they were all bad enough. But the Starks?” He spat on the sawdust, by way of comment. She had to ask the question that nagged at her. 

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“Is it true that Queen Sansa sells slaves?” The man looked at her as if she was simple, before replying. “You’ve been away a long time. Aye, you’ll find Northern slaves in Myr and Tyrosh. The best-looking ones are sent to Lys, as whores. Children, some of them.” 

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She left the table, and bolted back to her room, where she was promptly and violently sick.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Archmaester Valyn’s account is adapted from Matthew C. Jaeger’s Master’s Thesis, Imperial Soldiers And the Impact of the Guerilla War on Spain 1808 -1814 (University of North Carolina 2003) an excellent account of the nature of partisan warfare.
> 
> 2\. The Yronwoods in fact fought against Nymeria, but over the course of hundreds of years, they intermarried with her descendants, and the story of the Rhoynish is now the foundation myth of Dorne.
> 
> 3\. El Matarife is a character in Sharpe’s Honour, by Bernard Cornwell, a leader of the partidas, largely as described here. Given that Dorne is in large part based upon Spain, I decided to include him.
> 
> 4\. The Widow on the Waterfront appears in A Dance with Dragons. She was the slave mistress of a Triararch, and was freed by him. After his death, she inherited his property and ran his businesses. As a freedwoman, the Old Blood expelled her from behind the Black Walls. She is very wealthy, and extremely sympathetic to the Volantene slaves. Hence, they spared her, when they rose in rebellion. But, she would certainly have mixed socially with wealthy slaveowners who were killed.


	10. Fire and Blood, and Cold Iron Too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quaithe, here, is assumed to be completely hidden in appearance, as in this image and as described in the books:
> 
> https://awoiaf.westeros.org/images/0/08/Quaithe.jpg
> 
> Rather than the rather-less-than-sensible dress used in the show.

Tyrion wondered at the large black cloud in the distance. Rain was hardly likely, on such a hot, dry, day, typical for Dorne. As he rode closer, it gradually became clear just what he was seeing. Millions of flies, hovering over the carcases of dead men and beasts. And the stench! He had an orange, stuffed with cloves, in a purse attached to his belt. He held it to his nose, even as his mouth flooded with saliva. Damn it! This supply convoy had been vital. Famine stalked the land. He had no concern for the local inhabitants of course, but many of his own soldiers were starting to go hungry. His master had communicated with him directly, through his mind, warning him of the despatch of the supply convoy, and instructing him to meet it with a large force from Sunspear. The King would not be happy at this failure. He needed to find a scapegoat.

He had over a thousand cavalry and mounted infantry, who had ridden with him. To no avail it would seem. He dismounted. He noted with disgust that the dead men had been blinded, gelded, and had their tongues removed. The supplies of course, had been stolen by the partisans. Fuck them! He cursed impotently. He could only have missed them by a few hours! One of his scouts approached him, and saluted. 

“My lord, there were two bands. One band rode for the deep desert” he pointed towards the ridge, in the West. “The other, larger, band, rode East”. 

“It would be madness to pursue them into the desert. We could easily be ambushed.” 

“Agreed, my lord. There is a large village, Greystone, to the East, eight miles distant. We could question to the inhabitants, find out where the other band went. Who was leading them.” Tyrion gave orders, and they started East, leaving the scene of carnage behind them. The insurgency was bad enough, he thought, as he rode. His soldiers were constantly being ambushed, poisoned, assassinated. It was now impossible to send a despatch rider across the country without an escort of at least a hundred horse. Again and again, convoys had to fight their way through the Prince’s Pass and the Boneway, and he was begging his master endlessly for reinforcements. The king’s advice had proved extremely useful on occasion, when it came to tracking down insurgents, but even so, the man could not keep track of every rebel all of the time. That was the limit to his presience. Worse still, was the attitude of the clergy. R’hllor was worshipped in Dorne, in addition to the Seven. Both faiths, so often at odds in the past, were now united in preaching holy war against the invaders. Aware of Daenerys Targaryen’s return to life, each faith had hailed it as a miracle, proof of the power of their gods; to the Red Clergy, she was Azhor Ahai reborn, the Red God’s champion on earth; to the Septons and Septas a Saint, chosen by the Seven to liberate the entire country from Abomination, their term for King Brandon. He had tortured and executed scores of them, but most of them seemed to regard it as simply a test of their faith. Well, he would break them, and the population, however long it took, and however many deaths it needed. 

After an hour or so, they reached the village, a collection of around a hundred houses set around a large sept, mostly built of wood, ideal for what Tyrion had in mind. The place seemed quite prosperous, too, with hundreds of goats grazing the scrubland that surrounded it, and numerous fowl frequenting a large lake, into which a stream flowed. His men got to work, dragging the terrified villagers from their homes, taking whatever of their possessions they wanted for themselves. “Round up the livestock” he commanded his lieutenant, Ser Ronnett Connington. 

The village reeve was brought before him. “My lord, spare us. We are innocent” the man begged. A likely story. 

“I believe a band of partisans rode through this village, a few hours ago.” 

“They did, my lord, but they are long gone.” 

“Where did they go?” 

“To the East, lord, that is all I know. Please lord, this village will starve without its flocks”. 

“A few miles from here, hundreds of my soldiers were butchered by rebels. I think they must have had local assistance. “ The other man shook his head vigorously. Connington and his men appeared with a dozen local children. Tyrion nodded, and Connington cut the throat of the first. The reeve screamed in dismay. 

“Lord, of course we give food and money to the rebels. We have no choice. They would take everything we own if we refused!” 

“Out of your own mouth, then, you admit your guilt. Who was the leader of the rebels?” 

“The one they call El Matarife, lord. I don’t know his true name”. Connington cut the throat of the next child, the others crying and begging now. 

“Lady Yronwood, too.” Dammit. The Yronwoods had escaped him, into the desert. Even with King Bran’s assistance, he had little chance of capturing them. He knew where El Matarife’s stronghold lay, an isolated mountain fortress, but he had far too few men with him right now to assault it with any confidence. But, he could take revenge on the villagers who supported the rebels, and gain a vital source of food. 

“Kill them all”, he commanded Ser Ronnet. His men set to with relish, venting their frustrations at months of vicious fighting on the inhabitants of Greystone. He watched, indifferent, as the reeve and the children were butchered on the spot, as women were raped, and the village ransacked. As a final warning to the rebels, the survivors were herded into the village Sept, which was sealed from the outside, and then set alight. He had commanded at least a dozen similar massacres, and was quite unmoved by the sound of their screaming, or the smell of burning flesh. After rounding up the flocks of goats, his men then set fire to the rest of the village. 

He looked forward to returning to the delights of Sunspear and the Water Gardens as he rode away. Fine foods and wines, skilled whores, luxurious furnishings all awaited him on his return. He hated Dorne; he would make the inhabitants more afraid of him than they were of the rebels, but there were compensations. 

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Massed formations of troops with their pikes swaying above them tramped through the streets of Meereen. Flutes and drums and trumpets played; people screamed in the streets, and cheered, and threw flowers onto the marching troops. It was a second parade of victory, but in a way, far more momentous. This one wasn’t just the arrival of another Army. It was the arrival of _The Queen._

A palanquin born by Red Priests was there when Drogon arrived at the arena. It carried Daenerys to the reviewing stand. Elaena walked before it, carrying the Queen’s personal standard. “ _Mhysa, Mhysa, Mhysa!_ ” The crowd chanted around her. If she cried, it couldn’t be seen by anyone, between the distance and the mask.

With her sword jangling at her side, in a light corselet of mail, Elaena reflected on her position. A slave would have carried this banner in past nations. In Daenerys’ Empire, her Sword carried it, and the honour was all the greater for it.

A vast number of freed slaves surrounded them. If any of the remaining elite of Meereen would even think of threatening the Queen, thousands would leap to defend her at once. Unprotected and vulnerable, carrying the banner, Elaena was nonetheless buoyant. They reached the reviewing stand, and with the banner firmly fixed to it, there they stood before the legions.

The Shavepate was there, bowing obsequiously to the Queen as she arrived. Daenerys acknowledged him with a nod, and stepped forward, to receive the adulation of the crowd. Elaena smiled, and offered a slight bow of her own.

“She serves me on Drogon, in the heat of the fight,” Daenerys explained to him. “As you have been loyal to me, so as she. Elaena, of Volantis.”

“M’lord,” Elaena acknowledged.

“You are the one they call the sword, then.”

“I’m fortunate enough for the honour.”

“I have a habit of collecting strays,” Daenerys offered with a bit of snark, and a bit of sadness. Perhaps she had never expected to come back.

Or when she did, perhaps she had expected to have Missandei at her side. “I thank you for keeping the faith, Lord Skahaz. I will be honest with you. I still learn lessons, even now. When I left Meereen, I was not sure if any would stay loyal to me under Daario. You did not deserve that doubt—your loyalty was less likely than many who betrayed me. It was true nonetheless. You will be rewarded.”

“You have found, I hope, Your Grace, that all of Ghiscari culture is not bad,” he answered, with a slight bow. Certainly, Elaena could tell that the man surged with pride, and excitement, too. He was not without his avarice, as all men and women possessed alike in some measure. A reward would be appreciated.

Daenerys waved her hand out, and the crowd erupted into cheering again. “Of that I have no doubt. Their culture is lovely. It will be better still when all of Ghis is one nation again.”

“Your Grace?”

“We will talk more, tonight, at the Great Pyramid.” Daenerys looked out over the last of the troops approaching, the crowds surging to dance in the streets behind them, and waved again. “Would that I have never left Meereen,” she muttered afterwards, turning back in. “I would rule the whole Ghiscari Empire now, and North Valyria and Volantis. Two Nations, One Sovereign, United and Free. Westeros dragged me back. I think, now, it was the fate of my family, that’s what Lady Quaithe says. But the fate has been served. Hope remains. Come Lord Skahaz. Your loyal service will be rewarded. We will talk tonight, but first, I will whet your appetite. Where we march, the title of Viceroy of All Ghis may yet be your’s.”

That evening, they all sat to a banquet at the top of the Great Pyramid. Here, Daenerys had ruled Meereen once before, and now she did again. As usual, she did not eat with her subordinates, her retainers, her loyalists. Elaena, in fact, had never seen her take supper with anyone else, and assumed she ate privately when she retired with Lady Quaithe and Kinvara. Her portion of the meal was still prepared, but had instead been provided to a family of freedmen to eat in another part of the palace, as guests of the Queen’s generosity. Elaena suspected that the Queen’s wounds, which she knew had never fully healed, made it awkward for her to eat, and she preferred to do it in the deepest of privacy with those who had helped as the doulas of her return to life, and knew her weaknesses, so that others would not.

Elaena sat rather further down the table. Daenerys had Daario to her right and Yara to her left. Despite not sharing the meal with the others, Daenerys seemed fairly pleased. It would be hard, perhaps, facing the adulation of so many, to not have your mood buoyed. Quaithe, Kinvara, Skahaz, Grey Worm. The seven of them around the Queen. Inside the great hall of the Pyramid of Meereen, the occasion was a wild reflection of the sheer quantity of lands that Daenerys ruled or claimed. Among the attendants and lower-ranking subordinates, there were Dothraki, Ghiscari, Mantaryans, Volantenes, Westerosi, and those from further afield, both noblemen and former slave-girls alike.

As the evening wore on, the dancing, the singing, the eating and feasting, the entertainment; Kinvara and Quaithe, and the Queen, so composed above it all. The others could enjoy their lot. They had their duties, and their thoughts. Still Elaena wondered what was the truth of Quaithe, and what she really intended.

After the food was gone, but the entertainment continued, Quaithe, who had also not eaten, but unlike Daenerys, had imbibed drink, rose and stepped out toward one of the great balconies of the pyramid. Struck by an irresistible compulsion of teenaged curiosity, Elaena quietly excused herself—perhaps she was getting up to dance or something like that—and followed Quaithe out into the darkness.

The woman stood facing the city of Meereen, in the dark. Her black robes hung, finely embroidered with enormously subtle intersecting tesseract designs also in black, about her body. They were not very visible until one stepped very close. Her mask’s red colour was the colour of blood; her gold jewels hung heavy around her. She looked half a melted statue, not really alive, and it made Elaena shiver as she approached. The woman’s head did not turn, did not reveal that painted, wooden mask, but Elaena somehow knew well that she had been found out, and recognised, and with an ineffable sense of being watched, that Quaithe was observing her approach.

Elaena paused, and made a polite bow. “Lady Quaithe. Forgive my intrusion--”

“Don’t bother, we’re both of the same station. I have got you interested now, have I not?”

“I’ve always been interested in your story, Lady Quaithe, but it was a matter of learning the courage to ask.”

“Quick tongue.” She laughed, drolly. “I tried to warn the Queen, in Qarth, but she would not listen to me. If she had gone to the east, she would have found the power and knowledge to fight that monster. I had seen it in my dreams. But speaking prophecies plainly makes them no longer true. Too easy to grasp tightly, and yet so unwise, for they slip from your fingers all the easier, like if you try to firmly grip a fistful of sand. The beast in Westeros does not understand this. Daenerys is muddling her way through a second chance, though it is a cruel one; the beast in Westeros is harming himself with each measured step toward power.

“You speak informally of Her Grace as you weave this tale of magic and prophecy.”

“I am Her Grace’s kinswoman. She has not needed to know that yet, lass, but it is true.”

“She would be _pleased_ to have a kinswoman!” Elaena exclaimed. “She would do anything, in fact; she would likely make you her heir if she knew. Why don’t you tell her? It’s a cruelty not to!”

“The beast needs not understand that I still exist. Also, I am perfectly unsuited to be an Empress. Arguably, I am less alive than she is. I can just enjoy life more. Come closer, lass.”

Elaena stepped up to the woman’s side, a shiver running through her body. _Less alive than the Queen. What the devil does she mean…_

The girl was seized in firm arms, unnaturally strong for a figure the size of Quaithe. Quaithe turned and guided her away, inside, to one of the private chambers in the top of the Pyramid. “Once upon a time,” she explained, “a Valyrian Blood Mage could regenerate from the seed of her own body. Only a woman, because of the nature of the magical work. You could trade children for long life. Some Valyrian sorceresses chose to do this; they lived for centuries as a consequence. But the longer you lived in this state, slowly, the need for regeneration grew greater and greater. And, you were living on the potential life of others. This began to change the natural state of your soul and body into that of a hunter, a predator of other living beings. With _great_ power, you can control this transfiguration for centuries. At the end of it, you can resist the impulse, and temptation, to feed onto death—though feed you must—for a while longer. In the end, the hunger becomes too great, and you kill, and kill.”

Elaena had gone as stiff as a board as she listened. Frozen in place by the slow movements of the woman before her, as she slowly pulled off the hood of her robe and let that platinum-silver-blonde hair, the same as Elaena and Daenerys’ own, drape down across her back. And then she reached for the clasp on the mask—pulling it off—revealing below it a beautiful, youthful face. It might be a very well preserved woman of her early forties, hardly an uncommon concept behind the black walls. She would have once been fabulously beautiful by any measure, but something harsher and leaner, predatory, had gone into her features, and her skin was an extremely sickly pallid colour. She was thin.

Her eyes were a fabulous contrast of ultramarine and emerald green, not the classic violet of the Dragonlords. But otherwise, there was no doubt that she was of the Blood. “Let me tell you a story about a man I loved very much. The Great Other destroyed him, whispered to him in the woods, and lured him to the North, and took his soul and his body. For you see, Elaena Saerganyon, Daenerys is the instrument of my righteous revenge against that foul monster. And we will both profit from it, for at the end, both of us will have a legacy for our family, the House Targaryen, and the beast will be quiescent. He cannot be killed, but he can have his connection to the physical world sundered by the death of his hosts without replacement. He will lay fallow, powerless, a shade, for countless aeons then, until in the inevitable fullness of time another hews to his wordless whispers of power and obeys his command finds himself overtaken, destroyed, consumed to be a living vessel.

“So. That is all the revenge I can obtain, and I can have it. And when I have it, I will have also made Daenerys the Empress, from here to the shores of the western sea, the greatest Empire the world has ever known. It will be an eternal slap in the face of that beast, which has controlled and manipulated Westeros as the playground from which He controls the world, since time immemorial. In other places, He has competition. But in Westeros, he has made his fortress. We will crack it.”

Quaithe pulled Elaena against herself. She enfolded the girl and dragged her down onto the bed. “Shh. Let me tell you the truth. I cannot have children. The Queen cannot have children. Do you think she wants this Empire she is creating to collapse the moment she dies? She does not want to live that long. She wants her revenge, she wants her legacy. She does not want to endure her un-life for that long.”

Elaena slowly sucked in her breath. She felt weak, her limbs rubbery. She sank against Quaithe’s strength. This woman had all the dark power of the magic of Old Valyria. She had limitless reserves of magical strength and potential, that much was certain. So what was she going to do? “You see revenge upon the enemies of the Lord of Light, and I see nothing in what you say against Her Grace,” Elaena spoke half to convince herself, but mostly out of sincerity. “I will work with you. What will you have me do?”

“Give me a taste of the blood which once flowed in my own veins, and make me a promise, that on the day when I am too far gone to make a woman, but am only a beast; that on that day, you will put an end to me. Then, I shall see you an Empress, Elaena _Targaryen._ ”

The next day, Elaena stood with the others before the sand table in Meereen, as they plotted out the conquest of Yunkai and Astapor and New Ghis. The operations of the fleet, and the operations of the troops, to march against two cities and be carried across the sea against the third, were planned in some detail.

A weak and somewhat lightheaded Elaena managed to convince the others that she had, still as a very young woman, simply overindulged at the festivities the night before. Daario and Yara were magnificent, bouncing plans off each other, to occasional murmured directives from Daenerys, as they completed the plans that would carry her back to the city she had become famous in, and they would complete the work that she now regretted as having left unfinished. All the slaving cities would fall to her troops. She had Drogon, grown to a great beast in the fullness of war. She had fleets and veteran armies of freedmen, fighting to free others. Even the Army which had marched to Westeros from Meereen, those years before, could not rival the force which was now assembled.

She had lost two dragons, but the one that remained was an immense beast, flown by a proper saddle, with a properly armoured dragonrider. She had lost countless ships, but regained them from the captured fleets of many cities, from new built ships, and from the return of new fleets from some allies. She had lost countless troops, but in the stead of the masses of Dothraki cavalry, she had solid columns of pike from the liberated Valyrian cities. The Unsullied were much fewer now, but those who remained were the finest picked body of an Old Guard which had ever existed, now with the highest morale possible, for this time, they would return to the city of their creation, and bring it under the reign of their Mhysa, forever and ever.

The Valyrians of old had dragons, but they rarely left Valyria with them. Many times, their armies fought alone. They had used slaves for everything, including many though not all of their troops, and colonists for the rest. Their troops had no special value, and had never quite equalled the Ghiscari of all. These troops would have cut through the old Lockstep Legions like a knife through butter. Their morale and training was much better. They only had a single dragon, and to be sure, once the Valyrians had put three hundred on a single field.

But the enemy did not have Water Witches to check them, and few dragons had ever rivalled the size of Drogon.

Against the opponents they faced, it was not a great exaggeration to say that this was the finest Army the world had seen. It was an Army of the Free.

And as they spread amongst the ranks and taught and preached, it was increasingly a fanatic Army of God, too.

Elaena couldn’t help but glance, from time to time, at Daenerys. Instead of feeling flush with power, the experience of the night before had left her uneasy. The Queen might really someday want her to rule all of this. She had best not disappoint.

_________________________________________________________________________________________ 

Having one’s world outlook overturned is shattering. Before her arrival at Volantis, everything had seemed quite straightforward to Arya. The Dragon Queen had been restored to life by evil magic, and it was her duty to destroy her for good, to save her family and the Seven Kingdoms. She had murdered thousands of innocents without remorse, and Jon had done the right thing by stabbing her. She still burned with anger at the way that Jon had then been cast into the wilderness, when the throne was his by rights. She knew her sister would happily have forgiven him, but the Imp and Sam Tarly had given very bad advice to the assembled lords. 

Or would she have forgiven him? How well did she know Sansa, truly? Never in a million years would she have believed her sister would sink so low as to sell slaves. She had spoken to other merchants from Westeros, at the Merchant’s House, who confirmed that awful truth. _They should have killed the masters _she remembered telling Jaqen H’qhar, when he explained that the cult of Faceless Men had been founded by men who bestowed the gift of death on suffering slaves. Did that mean her own sister deserved to die? The more she looked back at Sansa’s behaviour, the more sinister it seemed to her. She had learned that Sansa had failed to tell Jon about the arrival of the Vale knights, before the battle of Winterfell; had she wanted Jon to die, so that she would become Queen? She had openly criticised Jon’s decisions before his lords, and in his absence at Dragonstone. She had accused Sansa of trying to undermine him, which she had furiously denied. But, wasn’t her first instinct correct? Sansa had then persuaded her that Daenerys was a threat to all of them, but what if her sister had just been trying to undermine her the whole time? And what of her brother? Was Bran even her brother any more? Was he possessed? There could be no doubt any more that his was a reign of terror.__

____

She thought on these matters, again and again, during the voyage to Meereen. She had learned that the Queen was heading there from Mantarys. She had paid off her crew, instructing them to return to Westeros, and booked passage on a ship heading East. She had disembarked, three days previously, and booked a room in a waterfront tavern. Daenerys was returned to the Great Pyramid, in the city centre, a marvellous structure that towered over the metropolis. Hundreds of soldiers guarded the building, and it would be difficult for her to gain access. But, did she still want to kill her anyway? Family was everything, even when they had committed crimes, after all. And, she had seen what the Queen had done to Kings Landing. She had watched as men and women were literally melted in cobble stones, transformed into molten lava by Drogon’s fires. But, wandering through Meereen had only confirmed what she had learned in Volantis. Daenerys was adored by the freedmen. They had turned out in hundreds of thousands to cheer her return to the city. None of this was surprising. If anything, the lot of the slaves of Meereen, had been even worse than those of Volantis. She had learned that here, they had been captured from foreign lands, castrated, raped, made to fight each other, or else worked to death in mines, quarries, and fields – all but a privileged minority of house slaves, or those who had sufficient skills to make them worth exporting to the free cities. She winced, to remember that the Northmen had regarded these people as scum and savages, even after they had marched North to fight the Dead. 

____

Well, sooner or later, she had to choose. Only that morning, she had been approached, by a merchant from Kings Landing. It seemed that her brother’s agents had been aware of her arrival in Pentos, and had kept track of her since then. It turned out that among the freeborn and former masters, there were many who still loathed Daenerys, and would be only to eager to finance an uprising. 

____

“She is a tyrant, you saw that at Kings Landing” the man had insisted. “I can put you in touch with men and women in this city, who are only to eager to remove her. Strike her down, and the Seven Kingdoms will be safe forever.” 

____

Strike her down, and she might well save the Seven Kingdoms from Daenerys Targaryen. But who would save them from her brother and sister?

____


	11. Measures of Righteousness

_This is the price of Northern freedom. I must be worthy of my ancestors. They did not win the North by bringing sweetness and light to their enemies, but rather fire and sword. There's a lesson here for my people. This is what defeat looks like. Avoid it. _But, it was still hard to bear the sight of men, women, and children being chained up, prior to the being loaded on to the slave ships that crowded Lordsport harbour. She needed the money from their sale, to buy food for her people, and pay for her armies, yet it was still heart-rending, to watch families crying and sobbing, as they were separated forever. It was one thing to give the nod to enslavement from behind a desk, quite another actually have to witness it. Gelgil, by contrast, looked pleased, stroking his gold chain with satisfaction.__

“Two thousand of them, your Grace, and more to come. They’ll fetch a rare price. The boys and girls especially. See how good-looking they are.” She noticed that the slave dealers were stripping the children, to inspect them.

She knew she shouldn’t enquire, but couldn’t help it. “Why the children?”

“Eastern brothels can’t enough of them. There are more than four hundred,” replied the man smoothly. Her stomach roiled at the thought. _Sansa Stark, raper of children _, the thought entered her mind, unbidden.__

“No!” she said suddenly. “The children won’t be sold!”

“I beg your pardon your Grace?”

“I’m not selling the children as whores!”

“Your Grace, who will look after them?” asked Gelgill.

“Winterfell needs servants. Northern families have lost children in the wars. They can adopt new sons and daughters. Masters need apprentices. The children can be raised as Northmen. Ensure that the children are fed and cared for, and that no harm comes to them”. The merchant seemed about to argue, but then thought better. He sighed loudly, left her, and strode down to the harbour, to relay Sansa’s instructions.

“That was merciful, your Grace” remarked Wolkan. She clicked her tongue.

“Merciful? I’m splitting up their families forever!”

“Why not resettle the families in the North? The Gift, in particular, has land to spare. In time, they'd pay you rents and taxes.”

“I need a great deal of money right away, you know that. The Reach is holding me to ransom. And the wars in the East have driven up the price of …..indentured labourers" (the word, "slaves", stuck in her throat) "Come, let us return to Pyke.” She mounted her horse, and rode back to the castle, surrounded by her guards. Her army had conquered the island, a short while previously, as well as Harlaw. Savage fighting continued on the remaining islands, even without the ironborn warriors. The women, youths, agricultural labourers, and old men were formidable opponents; even most of the thralls preferred to side with their masters than with the Northmen. Better a thrall than a chattel slave, after all.

She entered the Greyjoys’ solar, with Wolkan. One servant removed her wolf-fur coat, while another poured them both wine, and then both left. For the hundredth time, it struck her how truly lonely she was. Her sister was gone, her brother was distant, she had no friends. The Maester broke into her thoughts.

“Have you given any more thought to my advice, your Grace?”

“Marriage? It makes sense, I suppose. Yet…” Sansa looked discomfited.

“The Beast?”

“The Beast. I don’t know that I could even bring myself to lie with a man, now.” She clenched her fists, remembering the rapes, the whippings, the abuse she suffered at the hands of Ramsay Bolton. “And, what man would find me desirable in any case? He liked to cut me with knives, and burn me with irons. My body bears unsightly scars. I was forced to do things that only the most desperate of whores have to do; any man who knew of this would view me with disgust. Do you know what he planned to do? After I had borne him a living child, he and Myranda would hunt me with dogs. Once I was captured, I would be mated to his hounds. Then, he intended to flay me. He liked to boast that my skin would be displayed in the Great Hall at Winterfell, in pride of place.” Wolkan looked sick, she saw, but he countered,

"No man would find you undesirable, your Grace. As to the Beast of Bolton, he dishonoured himself, not those he hurt. Never think that.”

“You know I was betrothed to King Joffrey?”, she continued. Having started, she couldn’t stop pouring out her thoughts. “He enjoyed tormenting me as well. Tell me, is it common for men to do such things to their wives?”

“Of course not, your Grace. Your father never did such things to your mother.”

“All my life Wolkan, I’ve been afraid. I’ve been afraid, ever since that bitch Cersei forced father to kill Lady. My direwolf.” She felt her eyes water, as she remembered. “I was afraid, when the Lannisters held me prisoner at Kings Landing. They forced me to watch as they killed my father. I was afraid when Petyr Baelish held me in his power. I knew I faced a dreadful death if I fell into the hands of Cersei. At heart, Wolkan, I’m a coward.“

“You’re no coward, your Grace. You would not have survived your ordeals if you were. There’s no shame in being afraid. If we were not having this discussion, I would never have thought you knew fear. You hide it extremely well.”

She found that she had finished her wine as they talked, and poured herself a fresh goblet. She had never been so frank with anyone before. “I was still afraid when I fled to Castle Black, when we fought the Beast outside Winterfell. Perhaps the only time I’ve felt truly happy is when I fed him to his dogs. Gods! I made sure his dying lasted a long time!”

“His screams could be heard all over the castle”, remarked Wolkan, dryly.

“I hoped that my luck would turn at that point, but no chance of that. The Dead were coming for us. Then, Jon went to beg the help of Daenerys Targaryen, against my advice. I knew she’d want to take Winterfell for herself, but no, Jon thought he knew better, as always, and no sooner did she spread her legs for him, then he gave up his crown to her. I knew what kind of person she was, even before I met her. She’d butchered her way across the East, and she’d butcher her way across the Seven Kingdoms. She’d take the North from us, and have us down on our hands and knees, tonguing her quim. I could never allow another person to hold power over me, ever again.“

“You aimed to bring her down?”

“I did. I thought I’d succeeded too. For the first time in years, I thought I was safe, when I heard Jon had put a knife in her heart. I should have known better. She’ll have no mercy for any of us when she returns!”

“Can I make a suggestion, your Grace? One that you won’t like, but which could save us?”

“Go on.”

“Make your peace with Daenerys Targaryen. If needs be, travel East, and pledge her your fealty.”

Sansa was speechless. “Is it the end of the world, if you serve as Wardeness of the North, rather than reign as Queen?” For a moment, she considered it, but, in the end it seemed absurd.

“I think it’s too late for that, Wolkan. That ship has sailed. Perhaps…..had I seen the future, I would have held my tongue, swallowed my pride, and given her my fealty. But, I plotted her death. She won’t forgive that. And, even if she did, Yara Greyjoy serves her now. She certainly won’t forgive what I’m doing now! No, I don’t think I’ve any choice but to play this game to the bitter end, even though I’ve a pretty good idea how the game ends. Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North who died screaming on a cross!” She gave a shrill laugh.

“Your Grace, if it comes to it, I have painless toxins, in my possession. That is our way of escape, if the worst happens. You are distressed. Forgive me, but if you have no desire to lie with a man, perhaps a handmaiden or courtesan could provide you with some solace.”

For a moment, she was tempted, remembering Margaery Tyrell, her friend and her lover, or so she had thought. Had her intended marriage to Ser Loras taken place, it might have been the ideal union. He was in love with his squire, she, in love with his sister; no doubt she and her husband could still have produced a couple of children together. Then, she remembered how the Rose of Highgarden had betrayed her, too, cynically framing her for Joffrey’s murder. And then, the things Myranda had done to her. “No, leave me. I need to pray.” She considered it, but in the end, what was there to do, but carry on? The Gods would intercede, or they would not.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moment when Arya was absolutely sure that she was not going to assassinate Daenerys Targaryen was very simple, really. She had agreed to meet with the conspirators—of course she had. Information was useful, and she was confident in her own abilities to get out of any situation that might entail risk to her person from her interactions with the conspirators.

So she had agreed, but without a real sentiment of following through. Perhaps, they might have convinced her to go ahead with the operation, to go ahead with the killing of the Queen. But instead, the moment she arrived, she realised how wicked that these people were. They were being served by deaf slaves, whose tongues had been taken out.

Like as not, kept hidden from patrols and magistrates, even in the years that had passed, these slaves had never tasted freedom even for a single time. They had no way to communicate with the outside world, being silent, unhearing, and illiterate. Arya was greeted warmly, as an enemy of the Dragon Queen and, vouched for by the agents of King Bran, a powerful potential ally.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Arya said with the pit of her stomach roiling. They called her a Princess, in flattery of who she was, and who her sister and brother had become, but it just reminded her that Sansa was selling slaves, and made her ill and cross. They served her fine wine and food, and explained the plans that they already had, looking for her reaction.

She made a few polite noises, nothing more than that, and listened along as they discussed the plans. They would take the Queen, as she departed from the city for her campaign to the south, save Yunkai and Astapor, and finally overcome her garrison within the walls of Meereen, with a planned rising.

Arya thought it pathetic. They should have tried a rising when it was only the troops under Daario or the Shavepate who were present. Now there were more troops, there was Grey Worm, there were the Queen’s advisors, there was Yara. Altogether it seemed like the operation was in fact much less likely to succeed now than it had been before. Despite her presence, despite the presence of the Queen, it was _more_ likely to fail than it would have been before. They ate their fine food, and discussed, in delight, a future where the natural order of things had been restored, one where the freedmen had been returned to slavery.

And in the dimly torch-lit underground grotto which was accessible from several of the fine villas, they eagerly abused their deaf-mute slaves, too. Arya grew more cross the longer it lasted. She could see the suspicious, thoughtful eyes of the servant of her brother, and wondered— _does he know not to trust me completely? Is Bran so gone that he does not have faith in me?_

The answer that came to her _,_ _yes_ , reinforced her commitment. She had been taught to read people. She could tell that her own survival was immaterial to this plan. In fact, her brother’s agent was using all of these people. They would _not_ overthrow the Dragon Queen’s _Army,_ or her government. Both would live on after her, just as Daario and the Shavepate had managed to run the city just fine without her. That meant that the real intention was simply to remove _Daenerys,_ to remove the threat to her brother’s reign. All the people involved in that process? They could go hang afterwards. There was nothing about them that mattered.

Arya rose, and excused herself to go to the privy. There were some suspicious looks, but the privy was the privy, connected to some ancient underground sewer, a dingy chamber nearby. First, she took a drug the Faceless Men had taught her to make, which, when taken, made it very hard to grow inebriated. Quickly after drinking that vial, she quietly slipped out a vial of poison, one that unleashed itself into the air after being opened, and hid it into a crevice. Then she quickly departed, holding her breath until gone.

She agreed to the task of the assassination, and after some celebrations, they turned to details. Arya watched them grow longer in their cups. She didn’t need them to be drunk, not really. She cared only that they were consuming a lot of fluid, and several excused themselves to visit the privy. As they did, those appeared to be more taken with the alcohol than the others.

Finally, there was some confusion as one of the conspirators collapsed into his cups, as her poison took effect. One of the servants, passing by, Arya subtly tripped. She toppled into one of the nobles who had risen to check on his compatriot, and was rewarded immediately with a furious beating—a necessary sacrifice to the occasion—as he chastised her. That was now the perfect level of chaos and distraction.

She lunged, drawing her sword and plunging it into her brother’s agent in the same motion. His eyes widened in fury as he died while going for his own dagger.

The man who had stood was another of those who had not excused himself to the privy. He was distracted, beating an innocent slavegirl; only one other man was coherent enough to rise, and so Arya took him first. She feinted low, and shoved one of the poisoned men out of his chair, forcing him back enough distance for her to finish off her first victim, and then attack. In the tight confines, a swipe of a lantern sending shadows flying, she hamstrung him with the first stroke.

Of those poisoned, most would likely die, but the amount of exposure mattered a great deal, and, it did dissipate. She chose the one who had travelled to the privy last, and spared him. Instead of a stab, she choked him into unconsciousness with a garrote, quickly, but not to death. She wanted one survivor, to be put to question by the Dragon Queen.

Now, the last challenge that remained was to make good her escape from these chambers without raising an alarm, with a body. The slaves provided an easy solution; the last task to which they would be commanded, before their liberty, would be to carry him through the surface, as Arya with lamp in hand and the sword ready, searched through the chambers until she found one through a mostly empty villa, where she easily overcame the guards.

It was no victory to celebrate. For all that she did not regret it in the slightest, she had made her choice. She was turning away from her family.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, Arya had presented herself with her sword and hauberk at the base of the Great Pyramid. The guards had levelled their pikes. The slaves she had freed, carried her prisoner, firmly bound, behind her. The sun was shining bright in a clear blue sky, with the sea-breeze damping the city’s stench with the smell of salt, and pushing the dust to the east, away from Meereen.

“Speak your name!”

“Arya Stark, daughter of Ned,” she answered with her Northern brogue. “I’ve come to present proof of a plot against Her Grace!”

A very fit servant went bounding up the stairs, past the fluttering banners of the House Targaryen. In a relay with other servants, they quickly brought the message to the top, where one knelt and reported it to Daenerys, behind her silver mask at the top of the Pyramid.

“The Swordswoman says she is Arya Stark, and she has information of a plot against Your Grace,” he spoke.

There was a stiffening from more than a few of the Queen’s advisors, all save Daario and Elaena knew who she was, after all. But even he knew that surname. “...Was it not the Starks who conspired against Your Grace?” He asked.

“It was,” Daenerys said from the top. “Let her present her case to the courtiers—let her advance ten storeys up the Pyramid, to the Hall of Presentation.”

One of the messengers knelt, and ran down the stairs quickly, all the way to the bottom, where he knelt again to the commander of the Mantaryan Guard. “Her Grace says Lady Stark may advance ten storeys, to the Hall of Presentation, and make her case there!”

The slaves she had freed bore her prisoner up to the Hall of Presentation. There, they settled him down, growing weary, as Arya addressed the courtiers.

“The servants of my brother asked me to meet with the nobles of the city who resist Her Grace’s reign, and I did; but while they wished me to kill Her Grace, I can see that Her Grace has freed this city, and the freed slaves love her. I too wish the freedom of all slaves. These deaf-mutes were kept as slaves in the grottos of the villa district; they were not freed with the others, as they were not told that slavery had ended in the city. I massacred all the nobles conspiring against Her Grace, and freed them. I have brought one, Merkaros Tikhazzo, to be put to the Question that you may know my story is a true one.”

A messenger was sent back up via the relay. He carried the report to Daenerys. “Let Merkaros be put to the Question,” Daenerys commanded. “And take the freed slaves with Lady Stark, give them food and shelter, and arrange for their upkeep, until they can be found employment within the city, for this is what they deserve, and the Queen’s Grace should honour them as the last slaves to blight Meereen.”

“And the Stark girl?” Yara looked sharply to Daenerys. “We can’t trust her in the slightest. She may just be trying to get close enough to kill you, Your Grace.”

“She deserves an audience for this work, if it is true,” Daenerys answered.

Another messenger was accordingly dispatched down to the Hall of Presentation. “The Lady Stark may advance to the outer Hall of the Audience Chamber!”

Up the Pyramid, then, marching higher and higher, until they reached the very top; Arya could see the entire city splayed out around her, as fantastically perfect as if she were riding Drogon or another great Dragon. In fact, she supposed that it was worth it, simply getting to the top, even if it was necessarily true that she was about to die. But she showed no fear, as she witnessed the Dragon Queen, sitting in her silver mask and silver robes, gleaming like a bolt of lightning, on her throne atop the Great Pyramid of Meereen, at a distance and an elevation from where Arya stood.

A young woman of Valyrian features, also with a sword at her side, approached. She was flanked by two Unsullied, as the breeze at the top of the pyramid ruffled Arya’s hair. “I am the Sword of the Queen’s Grace,” she introduced herself with a small, polite, bow. “Lady Stark, kneel, and give me your sword.”

“Should I not have a hearing before I live or die?”

“Lady Stark, you may approach to speak with Her Grace, but first, you must kneel, and give me your sword.”

Arya looked past the woman toward the distant masked figure of Daenerys, with another masked figure, and a Red Priestess, at her sides. She could see Grey Worm, too, fingering his sword hilt openly, as was another man who looked a mercenary, except that his closeness to the Queen indicated great trust. She could see, too, Yara Greyjoy, openly contemptuous and suspicious. But Yara would only be suspicious if she didn’t approve of what was going to happen, and Arya supposed that boded well. _There is no going back now._

She dropped to her knees, unclasping her sword belt, and holding it up to the young Valyrian woman. “There you go.”

The woman retreated, returning to the Queen’s side herself, and bowing, before taking up a position behind the Red Priestess. A herald now approached.

“Lady Stark, rise and approach the throne!”

Arya rose, and now walked to within thirty paces of the throne, where an ornate form of the trefoil Dragon, done in tiles on the floor, indicated where she should again kneel, and there she did.

“Why did you come, when your family betrayed me, and killed me?” Daenerys asked plainly, and Arya was thankful for it.

She looked up. The Queen’s violet eyes were dimly visible through her mask. “I heard you lived, so I started to travel east to finish you, Your Grace. But at each city along the way, I found freed slaves, living happy lives, who had you to thank for your liberty. So at each city, I doubted more. And in this one, I decided the only thing that I could do, since I love liberty so much, was to deliver you your enemies. So I have. My father didn’t teach me to lie”

“Others may have,” Daenerys answered coldly. “And he was no exemplar of loyalty, even if he was an honest man. They are not traits which need always travel together.”

“I won’t deny it,” Arya answered with a shrug, still on one knee. “Do as you will.”

“Mmn.” The Queen looked at her for a long time. “You _have_ delivered me my enemies. You did _not_ draw your sword against me. You may stay as my guest.”

_Not dead. Not a dungeon. But not an ally, either._

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The demands of her agreement with her brother had come home to roost. They had gone ahead with the invasion of the Iron Islands, and now, they would deal with the consequences. There was already nothing good about any of the effort.

In the darkness, Sansa heard the sound of the enemy; men with picks and shovels, scraping away at the earth, perhaps only a few feet now from breaking through. She waited for them with her own men, in the near-darkness, a single oil lamp providing a tiny light. The siege of Hammerhorn had now entered its fifth week. If she took the castle, then Great Wyk would be hers. Her siege engines had battered the outer wall of the fortress, leaving a practical breach which she attempted to carry, a couple of days ago. The attack had been a fiasco, with the defenders fighting like tigers, and inflicting hundreds of casualties. Despite their father being away in the East, the children of Lord Goodbrother, Gormond and Gysella, had conducted the defence with great skill. From behind mounds of rubble, women, thralls, and greybeards could fight almost as well as skilled warriors.

Alongside the bombardment, her men had been sapping towards the castle walls. The mine she waited in was less than a hundred feet away from them now. She had to take Hammerhorn within days or else abandon the attempt. The Pale Mare had begun to rage through her forces, as so often in a siege. She knew she really ought not be risking her life down here, but she couldn’t show herself as being less brave than Lord Goodbrother’s children. She wore a brigandine and half-helm, and bore a short sword and shield. After becoming Queen in the North, she had insisted that her master at arms train her in their use. Southron ladies might disdain to fight, but the North was a harsher world.

A low rumble, and the wall of the mine began to give way, earth cascading to the floor of the tunnel. She raised her shield, even as arrows and bolts whirred through the gap. Then, the enemy raced through. One weasel-faced peasant took a swing at her with axe, a blow that would have taken her head in a trice, had she not ducked. Fortunately, he left himself exposed, and she thrust her sword into his side. "Cunt" screamed a shield-maiden, before she drove her boss into the woman's face, and then kicked her hard in the shin. The woman screamed, and stumbled, even as her squire Robyn Manderly drove his sword into her neck.

"Bring down the shaft" she heard an enemy command, and defenders with picks started hacking at the props. Worse, some of the enemy had bottles of oil with lighted wicks, which they hurled down the shaft at her men. A couple of them screamed as flames engulfed them. She coughed on the smoke that roiled through the tunnel, before being felled by a blow to the head. She rolled onto her back, groggy, to see her attacker about to drive a long spear through her chest. There was nothing she could do now to protect herself, now, as she waited for her death; and then, she was showered in blood, as the man's head vanished, removed by her squire’s sword. The man grinned as he dragged her up by the hand. The tunnel was lit by flames, now, almost a vision of the hell that the Southrons believed in, and which she suspected would be her lot, in the world to come. "Run" she commanded Manderly. "We'll burn alive otherwise!"

They jumped through the flames, even as more bottles of oil exploded around them, "Run for your lives!" she shouted again to her men, as they sprinted back down towards the tunnel entrance. Behind her, she heard an ominous groaning and creaking, a sign that the mine was about to give way, as the props burned. A low rumble built up behind her, as she sprinted back towards safety, no more than fifty feet distant. The rumble became a roar as the ceiling collapsed , just as she and Manderly jumped for safety, hand in hand. They both stopped, panting, turning to look for survivors. There were none. Just a vast cloud of dust, obscuring the pair of them from view.

Exhilirated, relieved, thrilled to be alive, it suddenly occurred to her just how beautiful her companion was. She turned to Manderly, and kissed him fiercely on the mouth, before dragging him behind a rock, and down on to the ground with her. Each fumbled with the other’s breeches, before they threw discretion to the winds, and then rode each other hard, scarcely caring if they were discovered. _It can be joyful after all _,__ she thought afterwards, as she buttoned herself up, relaxed and content for the first time in years. She’d need to take a draft of moon tea, but Wolkan would not divulge her secret. And, it gave her some hope that a marriage might work, after all.

Afterwards, in her tent, a bodyguard announced Maester Wolkan. She gestured to the flagon of wine on her sideboard, and he poured for them both. She was uncomfortably aware it was the early afternoon, and this was her fourth goblet. Well, she’d had quite the fright earlier, even if it had ended delightfully.

“How many”? she asked.

“The Pale Mare claimed another thirty three, overnight”. She sighed, feeling that the invasion had been enough of a disaster as it stood. The collapse of the tunnel meant that it would be at least another fortnight before the castle could be assaulted again. Hundreds more of her men would have died of disease by then. She had had enough. Her army had had enough.

“We’ll lift the siege, and return to Pyke” she commanded. “Now, there’s another matter on which I need your assistance, and I trust you will be discreet…..”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. It's not entirely clear what Ramsay Bolton did to Sansa, over and above raping her. Her conversation with Littlefinger in which she referred to Ramsay "cutting" her, her reference to brothel owners knowing about the sorts of things he did, her keeping herself covered from the neck down, all imply prolonged degradation and torture at his hands, in my view. I imagine Myranda would have joined in. In their final conversation, she implied that Ramsay intended worse, once Sansa had borne him a child. In A Dance with Dragons, it's implied that Ramsay forced Jeyne Poole to have sex with his dogs. 
> 
> Late Season Sansa was not a good person, But, her life had been a trauma conga line up to that point. Had the show actually presented her as an antagonist, rather than trying to portray her duplicity and spite towards Daenerys as being justified, I'm sure that many viewers would have viewed her quite sympathetically, because of what she had suffered.
> 
> 2\. Wolkan's final suggestion in the solar makes sense in a world where marriage among the nobility is viewed principally as a means of transmitting property and producing legitimate children. There would be no risk of Sansa bearing a child outside of marriage, and thus little scandal. The intense hatred for same-sex relationships that the Faith had, in the show, is not actually a feature of the books, where they attract some disapproval, but not a lot of interest. It would be quite natural that a naive, traumatised girl like Sansa would have fallen for the beautiful, sophisticated, Margaery, who appeared to be kind to her, but who was really just making use of her, so as to frame her for Joffrey's murder. The show's making Margaery unaware of the intended murder made no sense, as her family would never risk her drinking poisoned wine. Sansa's realisation that Margaery had seduced and then betrayed her would only add to her bitterness and cynicism.
> 
> Like many people who have had a narrow brush with death, she found herself wanting sex immediately after escaping from the tunnel, much to her surprise.
> 
> 3\. Hammerhorn on Great Wyk is the castle of House Goodbrother.
> 
> 4\. Arya's audience with Daenerys is somewhat inspired by the presentation of Nameless to Qin Shi Huangdi in "Hero".
> 
> 5\. One assumes the poisons of the Faceless Men are quite sophisticated, and include things we would call gas.


	12. On A Rising Tide of Blood

At least the nightmares had ended. Jon had Val to thank for that. Nor had the entity in Kings Landing made any further attempt to contact him. Plainly, her charm had worked. To be honest, he was happier on his own with Ghost, than at any point when he had dwelled with Tormund’s tribe. Tormund might be a friend, but most of the rest had barely tolerated him. Some, like Hama, had hated him. He had spent the past few months, travelling back towards the Wall, hunting game, and gathering roots, herbs and berries, in the wilderness. Occasionally, he would encounter other hunters, but he took care to avoid settlements, and the larger bands. The nightmares might have ended, but the regrets and guilt, they still remained. His solitude gave him ample opportunity to reflect on his folly.

It was early afternoon. He skinned and gutted a brace of coneys that Ghost had caught for him, before roasting them over an open fire. As he sat staring into the fire, he realised truly what he was. A moral coward who had wasted every gift the gods had given him. What after all, had he done with his second chance at life, except to bring disaster on those closest to him? Daenerys had finally agreed to march North without pressing her claim, after she had flown North of the Wall to rescue him. So impressed had he been at this generosity, that he had bent the knee to her, convinced that his siblings would agree. Instead, they had reacted with hate and scorn when she arrived at Winterfell. So had his vassals. Much worse, he had refused to defend his own decision, in the face of their hostility, implying instead that Daenerys had compelled him, and leaving his lover to twist in the wind. Then, his “best friend” Samwell Tarly had revealed the truth of his parentage; with hindsight, he could see that the fat toad cared nothing for him. He simply wanted revenge for his father and brother, rightly condemned for treason. He had shunned Daenerys, treating her neither as a lover, nor as a family member. And then, like an idiot, he had revealed the truth to his siblings. He thought they would be pleased to learn he was not a bastard. In fact, it meant very little to them. Sansa had merely said he should bid for power, as the rightful king. Sansa hadn’t been acting in his interests, he realised now. She had simply wanted Daenerys eliminated. With Jon on the Iron Throne, she would either bid for a separate Northern crown, or become Princess of Dragonstone, heir presumptive to the Seven Kingdoms.

Sansa had insisted on revealing the details of his parentage to Tyrion, determined to drive a wedge between him and Daenerys, and between her and her advisors. Then, Varys had done the rest. Val had been right. Tyrion had used the Sack of Kings Landing as a pretext to urge Jon to murder her. No one had the slightest intention of punishing the thousands of Northmen who had run amok that day. Once he had served his turn, Tyrion, Sam, Sansa and Bran had only been too eager to cast him into the wilderness. Yes, he had been a fool, no two ways about it. _Say one thing for Jon Snow. Say he’s the dumbest cunt in the entire North._

 _ _ _What to do now?___ he wondered as he ate. If as seemed likely, Daenerys had returned to life, should he seek her out? Like as not, she’d kill him. No more than he deserved, to be honest. Better, really. But, perhaps he’d have the chance to apologise first, for everything that had gone wrong between them. And, at least beg her to come West, and save the Seven Kingdoms from their current rulers. As he pondered, Ghost suddenly jumped to his feet, growling softly. They were in a clearing in the Haunted Forest. A path led into it from the North, where he had come from, and out of it to the South. Faint at first, but growing louder, he heard people talking as they came up towards the clearing. He drew Longclaw. In the Wilderness, it was best to assume anyone was an enemy, till the opposite was proved.

A middle-aged man with a thick grey beard emerged into the clearing. And halted, giving him a hard stare. A mixed group of men, women and children followed him, perhaps forty strong. The first man held up his hands, palms facing outward, to show that he meant no harm.

“Don’t think you can fight us all, boy, however good you are. But, I’d prefer not to fight, if I can talk. Who are you?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Jon Snow." The other laughed.

“The King in the North? You’re right, I don’t believe you. Though come to think, you look the right age. I never met the King, though friends of mine did.”

“I was the King. Then I made a mess of my life. Now, I’m a fugitive. So, who are you?”

“Roger Glover, kinsman to the late unlamented lord of that name, who shamed us all by keeping us at Deepwood Motte, when everyone else was fighting the Dead."

“What happened?”

“Queen Sansa the Wise happened. She brought us fire and sword. Not that I blame her for that. Lord Robbett was a shit. But I blame her very much for what happened afterwards. There were fifteen hundred survivors, and she sold us. To Eastern merchants.”

Jon felt sick. He’d heard the rumours of enslavement of course, but to have them now confirmed was dismal. “But, you escaped?”

“Aye, we escaped. There are other bands, following us. If you are who you say you are, what do you say to that? Will you defend your sister?”

“No, I can’t." He looked Glover in the eye. “I think I can only say, I never knew really her. We were distant as children, and then thrown together when she escaped Winterfell. I know she suffered terribly in the South, and at Winterfell, with the Beast of Bolton. I now think it broke something inside her. Somewhere along the line, she became a cold, hard, ruthless woman, willing to do absolutely anything to gain power and hold it."

“So what now” asked the other. “Will you let us pass?”

“Where are you headed?”

“As far from your sister as we can get.”

Jon thought for a time at his words. Should he actually head South; try to raise the North against his sister, well his cousin really. What would he really do if he captured her? Kill her? She deserved it no doubt. But, would the North even rally to him? No, they hated him. First for bending the knee, then for being a kinslayer. Sansa would use both facts against him.

“I can lead you North. The Valley of the Thenns is fertile.. They were cannibals, but they were all destroyed in the Northern wars against the dead."

“Lead on, then,” said Glover.

At least he could do some good, after all. It weighed little against the harm he had done, but it was a start.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With a dragon to make breaches in the walls, the conquest of Yunkai and Astapor had been a march of triumph more than a serious campaign. In fact, both Yunkai and Astapor had been ruined by the wars, the revolutions, and the economic collapse of the slave trade. Yunkai had remained the better off, but not by much.

They had resisted, but as it had been in the final days of the wars between Valyria and the old Ghiscari Empire, it was a matter of heroism and futility. In both cases, Elaena and Daenerys had flown together on Drogon to reach the siege lines, and then after consideration of the positions, Daenerys had given the command, Drogon had opened the walls, and after they had cooled, the advance began. The literal melting of the stone and mud-brick had seen the breaches slump into veritable ramps to make the assault easy; piling of rubble while Daenerys’ army waited for the fused rock to cool had been a temporary expedient which had not proved much able to slow her down.

They had taken some casualties in the Forlorn Hope during the assault on both cities, of course. That was cruel necessity, when the enemy very well knew that there would be No Quarter, and the only terms offered beforehand, ‘surrender at discretion’. Yunkish meddling in the end had been a great deal of what had brought Daenerys’ experiment down into such a quagmire, and her moods were no longer quite so forgiving as they had once been. Lessons learned, about how no matter how kind, or how merciful that you were, those you forgave would still strive to stab you in the back.

Such terrible lessons, the world taught to Queens and women alike.

Elaena had burned through the walls of Yunkai and come under heavy attack for it. The Yunkish had made a functional government for themselves. They had fought, with the bitter hopelessness of despair, and they had fought hard. Daenerys, with an Army of 70,000, had easily overwhelmed that resistance.

There were no Wise Masters left. Their wisdom had finally ceased to avail them.

At Astapor, the situation for the defenders was worse. In fact, the government here was not the old one at all, but had at the time of the assault, now comprised an administration from New Ghis, and the defences were manned by two legions of Ghiscari troops. The plagues and internal civil wars and famine since Daenerys’ liberation had killed at least a third of the population.

It was Daenerys’ biggest mistake. She should have never left Astapor to rule itself, and she knew it, she knew it now.

The storming of Astapor had been a bloody affair, since veteran regulars fighting for a country—for New Ghis was more than a city, its archipelago constituted a country, truly—with interests to fight for. These “Iron Legions” were free men, who served terms of three years in the service in exchange for their political rights in New Ghis. They were nothing like the other troops that Daenerys’ Army had fought.

They also knew that to man the walls was death against the immensity of Drogon. Drogon could and would take down the walls at will, targeting them from the outside, avoiding fires and collateral casualties on the inside by undermining them with fire from without. So they created barricades in the street, and fortified the dense warrens of apartments, set back from the city walls, and then covered them with mechanical artillery and archers from positions created inside the buildings, and waited for a breach to be opened.

All the dragon did was make it easy for the troops of the Queen’s Army to march into Hell. Here in Astapor, the complicated dynamics of freed slaves becoming slaveholders themselves, of chaos and war, had created a nest of alliances that resisted a mass rising. In fact, some of the local population who had sullied themselves in slavery actively assisted the Ghiscari in fighting back.

The combat had lasted for nine brutal days. The Ghiscari troops knew that, as free men fighting for a slave regime, they could not expect quarter, though by the end of it, a few small groups were spared by Daenerys’ personal intercession, simply to prevent more effusion of blood among her own troops.

As the fighting had broken down into chaos, street to street and block to block, Daenerys had been upset to learn that, with no need for Drogon in battle, Elaena had attached herself as a supernumerary officer to one of the regiments, so that she could actually blood herself in combat on the ground. Yara had been sent to retrieve her, and had been lightly wounded in doing so. After being lectured that she was much too important to risk in that way, though not exactly irreplaceable, she was suitably chastened as she now accompanied them toward a very particular place in the heart of the city, where some of them had once been, some years before. Daenerys, sure, and Grey Worm, and …

No, everyone else was dead, actually. Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah, _Missandei._ They were all dead. A few Dothraki loyalists, now serving in the cavalry—yes, they were the only exceptions. The ranks of the Unsullied? Yes, they were there too, and they had witnessed and participated in that day, when they had finally tasted freedom. Of their number, though, Grey Worm was the one who had risen to stand at the Queen’s side.

To Grey Worm, his brothers mattered. They _mattered._ And he knew that to Daenerys, they mattered too. But it was just simple reality that they were not all her friends and confidantes, and indeed, they could not have done their work of liberation if they all had been, for Daenerys would have loved them all too dearly, as she did her other friends, to risk them as they would have had to have been risked to bring liberty to the people.

They had finished the enemy, despite the casualties. They had battered their way through the city, and crushed them, and prevented any looting, by using the Unsullied as military police, stationed in large bodies around the city—an intimidation—as a lesson learned from Meereen, where they had been broken into small groups. This was effective because the freedmen would report any outbreak of trouble to them, and they could move to deal with in one mass. Intimidation, instead of patrol.

So now Daenerys Targaryen had once again conquered Astapor. And now, they all stood on the plaza where once, Daenerys had stood, in command over the perfect, unbroken ranks of the Unsullied, before the years of war had whittled them down to a grim band of veterans. Yara, Daario, they were there. So was young Elaena. So was Quaithe, and Kinvara.

It was here that Daenerys had stood, and commanded the Unsullied to strike the chains off of every slave in the city, and kill every master, sparing only the children. Grey Worm was shivering, that they had returned to this place.

Daenerys, in her silver mask and robes, stepped to the front of the plaza, to the place where she had stood those years before, at least as near as Grey Worm could remember. She was proud, her back straight, composed. A Queen in every respect, as she had always been, making Grey Worm proud to serve her. Despite all her wounds and indignities, the essential nature of his Queen, his Mhysa remained. With every ounce of control and will that the Red God’s magic had granted her, she gripped this life tightly, and fought for the freedom of others.

She turned toward her court. She reached out, gesturing for Daario and Yara to step closer. “Once I had believed that this was my finest day, and when I was trapped in Westeros, facing the walls of King’s Landing, I wished I had died here, so that people would remember me by this day, and not what came after it. But returning to Astapor, I realise that everything is incomplete. Now, if I died today… Well, I cannot be sure yet.”

“You will _not_ die today!” Daario exclaimed. “Nor could the world handle your absence, Your Grace!”

“What he said,” Yara laughed softly, though her expression was sombre.

“You are both too kind to me.” Daenerys raised her voice, and seemed to be addressing Elaena in particular. “In fact, what this place really means to me is that here I met the finest woman who ever lived, and so, on this day when we have again liberated the city where she was a slave, for the last time, I want to tell all of you something about her, since I was denied the opportunity to speak these words before.”

They gathered near, as the Queen began to pace. Grey Worm admitted that, in fact, he, too, wished desperately to hear what she was going to say. He felt that he had a better idea of about what she would speak than the others did, in fact.

“She was the greatest woman I could ever know, and I mean it. As a teenager, she was gifted with the wisdom of an elder. She spoke languages quickly, learning them within weeks of starting an effort. She could translate seamlessly between tongues, she was literate in every language that she spoke. She loved learning … There was no Maester who could compare with her encyclopaedic knowledge of the world, even at her young age.”

“More, too, was the judiciousness of her counsel. No sovereign could ask for a better advisor. In fact, my only mistake was that I trusted others, instead of ignoring them, and sounding only her for advice. Had I taken all of her advice, she would doubtless…” Daenerys’ voice cracked. “She would doubtless be alive, and I would be unwounded.”

“She was always cool in her danger. Her last words, exhorted my efforts to avenge her, and to carry on my mission of liberty… For as long as I remain on this Earth, her last words will haunt me. They stand to tell me that I must be better than I have been, that I must forever be committed to the service of liberty, and the honest freedom of all souls, to have a right of the fruits of their own labour, and petition before their Queen, for all of time. Anything else would be a betrayal of what she was, and of what she stands for.”

A shiver so great that it shook her robes convulsed through Daenerys’ body. Yara approached to hold her, but Daenerys waved her off. “Let me say that she was more than all of this, however. She was a friend, and a true friend, too. Slavery did not define or control her. In private, she could muster the courage and strength of conviction to be my equal, when any free woman would by rights be intimidated by the power of a Queen. To her, we were as sisters—and for that, I knew the only compassion and love from a sibling which I have known in my life.”

She then turned and addressed Elaena very specifically. “Young Lady Elaena, of the House Saerganyon. Know that here began the true, free life of a woman who is better than you in every respect. _Who is better than me, in every respect._ I ask you, at this day and hour, to commit yourself to the service of her memory. If you, as I do now as well, commit to live in honour of Missandei, I believe you will be legendary in this world, for many centuries after your own passing. Do you dare to make this pledge?”

Elaena, transfixed with the initial words, tears streaming from her cheeks, dropped to her knees and raised her fist in salute. “I will be the executor of her Will, for the free people of the world!”

“Grey Worm, if you’d say some words?” He now faced the violet eyes of his Queen, and dropped his head, before turning to them all. “I understand why the Queen spoke such words. Her Grace desires that her friend be kept in immortal memory. I ask you to remember simply this – she had a lovely, compassionate soul. She loved my soul, regardless of what wounds had been done to me. She dared to be comfortable in herself, despite the wounds done to her. When you liberate slaves in her name, remember that Missandei wants you to liberate them for the sake of love.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the fleet had put out for New Ghis, it consisted of three hundred fighting ships. A hundred large transports, carrying more troops and siege engines and horses and elephants, followed in the protection of its crescent circle. The Queen waited in Astapor, still busy settling the affairs of that city and of Yunkai. Yara was in command of the expedition; the Queen could be brought over to supervise the siege of New Ghis, when a lodgement around a decent harbour on the island had been effectively gained by the first wave of the invasion. There were plenty of troops at hand, and reinforcements could be thrown in once they controlled the seaways.

Of course, the squadrons of Qarth had been sent to reinforce New Ghis. The fall of the last of the Ghiscari cities not under Daenerys Stormborn’s sway would make commerce with the remaining slave cities in the west of Essos almost impossible, and the end of that commerce would complete the ruination and impoverishment of Qarth. They fitted every single ship that they could, and hired mercenaries and pirates to fight with them from as far afield as Yi-Ti, Moraq and Leng.

They had somehow managed to muster four hundred fighting ships to face the invasion force. A great Empire, to rival the better part of the naval cities that remained of the old Freehold, still found itself outnumbered by the fleet of the Ghiscari and Qartheen when approaching the island.

As a matter of fact, the situation in the Ghiscari cities had been desperate. The production of food was inadequate, and the economy had not yet recovered. Daenerys organising an administrative apparatus to support the settling of slaves in fallow land and returning it to cultivation was absolutely crucial. There was not enough food to feed an Army there, or the Navy. It would have to return to Mantarys, to Volantis, if it did not act quickly.

Their enemies had gambled on this, because it meant that the fleet would have to invade New Ghis in the middle of the monsoon. Now, as Elaena flew above the ships, the weather was with their foes. The southwest Monsoon was making it hard for their ships to approach the island, and blanketed the defenders in fog.

Likewise, the defenders had waited until they were near the mouth of the Bay of Leraxich on the northwest flank of the island. Here, with the southwest winds blowing past the cape simply called Land’s End, from the direction of Naath, the enemy fleet prepared to defend the bay, and therefore, a secure anchorage for the invasion.

With land on both sides, and constant fogs, Elaena was presented with a unique challenge. Though she had launched several successful attacks, she had also burned stretches of salt grass and sand along the coast, led off-course by drummers along the shore, beating out the commands like they would have to galley slaves; it was impossible to tell where the sea ended and the land began.

She grimaced and gritted her teeth, knowing very well that the drummers she had burned were like as not to be slaves. The enemy was fighting in loose order, and they were using spigots and siphons, with bituminous tar, not as horrifyingly combustible as Wildfyre, but effective enough to let them fight with more dispersion between their ships than they otherwise might.

Elaena circled, sometimes attacking lone targets of opportunity. Those had been her orders anyway, until a general attack signal from Yara came, and in the fog and the chaos and the bad position of their fleet, she feared that she would never receive it. She listened to the horrible sounds of battle before, including men of their own side, being incinerated by the enemy. She feared for Yara, both her mentor, and so important to what remained of the happiness of the Queen.

 _I have to find a way to hurt them._ Drogon chuffed as if to echo the sentiment.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Port tiller!” Yara cried, the ship beginning to surge to the starboard as the Ironborn leaned into the set of block and tackle on the heavy tiller at the stern. She was on one of the great ships of the Iron Fleet for this battle, but at least the Ironborn had never slouched, and built the fabulous follies of the Throne.

Surging in the sea, with chunks of wood and canvas washing into the hull, in waves heavier than they should be for any battle of this kind. Through the fog out to port she was sure she could distantly see the line of breakers at shore, where only a few moments before a horrible line of dragonfire had cast strange lights through the fog.

A brace of arrows snapped down on the wet, sanded deck next to her. She ignored them and turned to watch the evolution of the manoeuvre. They were turning in hard, so that the enemy’s fire-spigots would threaten and foul their own ships. To minimise the risk from them, Yara had formed her ships in lines ahead. That way, only a few of the enemy had been able to engage them at once. Each line-ahead had lost several ships—but that was a mere fraction of that strength.

Now, using a particular Dothraki drum rhythm that would never be used by another navy at sea, Yara guided them through a pre-drilled manoeuvre. Penetrating deep into the enemy fleet in their lines ahead, once they had pierced through the front rank, the enemy couldn’t employ their fire weapons again out of risk of burning their own forces instead.

So they split up, odd and even ships in line turning to starboard and port respectively. They _swerved,_ as her flagship was now swerving. They were not rigged to ram, in the heavy seas of the open ocean here, rams were too much of a weight forward. To handle the heavy seas, they had removed the rams and replaced them on most of the ships with stout, heavy wooden prows, which both helped protect the forecastle from the waves, and provided another means of attack.

“Starboard bank, UP YOUR OARS!” She screamed again, and raised her axe aloft. The drum signal gave the order at the last moment. “Port bank, _back your oars_!”

First they swung in sharply as the port bank continued to pull, as the men on the starboard bank swung their oars up. They were drilled and trained freedmen and ironborn and they knew their jobs very well, and executed them just as well as they could.

Then, the backing of the port oars began to swing them back away from the enemy ship. They side-swiped her, more or less, and as a result that peak, the ‘telaro’, smashed into the oar bank. It tore through the outrigger that the multiple banks of oars on the enemy dromon projected through. It smashed and broke her oars, and left her swinging away helplessly, the force of motion between the two sides of the ship unbalanced. The snapping oars whipped back into the men working them, but that terrible execution among the galley slaves was still better, she supposed, than burning alive. Yara had heard plenty of men burn alive by now.

Then the drums sounded for the formation to close ranks again, to select their next group of targets, and prepare once more to attack. It wasn’t a typical ramming-and-boarding action, but instead, Yara was trying to turn the fog against the enemy. By having each of her battle-lines bash its way through the enemy fleet which was deployed in a loose-order line abreast facing them, she intended to slip through with her fleet in columns, and actually gain the bay despite leaving most of the enemy intact.

And by that measure, she was succeeding.

A ballista bolt slammed into the deck near her, and splinters flicked across her breastplate and maile. Again she ignored it, focused on the orders to her tiller and her oarsmen and the drum signals, passed down the line, which kept her free men, better disciplined and trained, out-manoeuvring the enemy even when they were outnumbered and outgunned.

It was not as dramatic for her crew as it might have been. In a battle like this, your ship was either unharmed or quickly in a great deal of trouble. No deck slicked with blood, just the shower of arrows, the screams of distant men, and the screams much more up close and personal when the telaro caused pain and hurt to a hundred men forced to work the oars of an enemy ship against their will.

But Yara had to win, and win quickly, lest the enemy regroup and instead of pursue her, chose to pounce on the transports. At no point did she sound the drum signal for “close action”. Instead, they stayed in line ahead, and weaved their way through the enemy formation, causing hurt, but also pressing ahead with alacrity until the better part of her columns were through the enemy fleet.

The great positional advantage was that it had driven the enemy away from shore. Yara’s strategy of cutting through their formation had given her the bay—though it didn’t matter without the transports. Now she had to tell Elaena that it was time to intervene.

And trust the girl had actually figured out a way to do it without flashing both fleets to cinders.

“Up the signal bolts!”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elaena watched as flaming ballista bolts began to rise into the sky. Wrapped in tarred cloth soaked with chemicals, they burned hot blue as they rose through the fog. It was much different than the smokey black from the fires of the enemy’s siphons, and the orange from the tongues of flame they caused when they hit and hurt one of the ships of their own fleet.

It was the signal for her to execute a general attack with Drogon. She could see, from the signal, that Yara had passed the bulk of the fleet through the enemy force. But that also meant that the squadrons of transports, standing off to the west, were vulnerable if they were detected, if the enemy wore ship to stand about to the west from their current northeasterly course.

The enemy was roughly in the right position for an attack, sure. They were roughly isolated, sure. The signal arrows at least told her roughly where the bulk of Yara’s fleet was, and finally told her where the land was, as opposed to the sea. She wouldn’t be turning a beach to glass, then, and she leaned into the chains and brought Drogon about to the north…

And then paused, and remembered the lessons in her books and the battles she had fought before. The enemies of liberty had in the past humiliated her and showed the power of a dragon weak, all of the power of the wind—the wind which had blinked her from attacking their armies with thick clouds of smoke. Now, without beginning to attack, she let Drogon carry through a full lazy circle, and instead began to descend to the south-west.

Other things could travel on the wind, not just obscuring clouds of smoke. Elaena remembered the haunting songs, of the fates of lovers and refugees, trying to escape the Fourteen Fires, and choked by the hot clouds from the mountains.

She dipped Drogon down toward the sea, roughly about southwest of where she thought the enemy fleet to be. “ _Dracarys!_ ”

Black-tinged flame erupted in a white flash across the sky. In fact, she caught a rear-guard frigata of the fleet, she was so close to the concentration of the enemy. The dragon’s fire was so powerful and so hot that the ship outright exploded, as wood cracked and detonated, from the water within it instantly being seared into steam.

Steam.

Steam seared up from the surface of the ocean in hot hissing clouds, generated by a fire so hot it would burn and melt even the salt within the water. The monsoonal winds bore the clouds of hot steam down onto the nearest squadron. Elaena did not need to aim, she did not need to see. She tracked across the nautical battlefield, commanding Drogon to burn the sea. The clouds of fabulously hot steam were blown across the southwestern quadrant of ships in the enemy fleet, scalding the men upon their decks, and destroying their rigging. The dense clouds were too wet to cause the spontaneous combustion of wood, but they were also plenty sufficient to kill every man on the deck.

Elaena worked to the northeast, judging the enemy fleet to be there. She flew back and forth in tracks, marking her position against the bad weather with a sun-stone that Yara had gifted her, knowing the time, approximately, and marking the light in the sky. At first, bolts flew up at her, and arrows too; but then there were none. The enemy was fleeing to the east, and the transports slipped past them to join Yara’s fleet. It was not an annihilation, but it was all that she had been required to do—allow the landing to be effected upon the island without heavy casualties.

But as long the screams of the horribly burned men, whose flesh would peel from their bones as the clouds of superheated steam roiled over them, came up to her, she swung back, and attacked again. At least this way, the slaves below-decks in the oar banks had the better of it, protected by wood from the brief intense heat. The men on deck with exposed flesh burned. The ones in armour, broiled.

And instead of taking advantage of their position, the enemy fleet was driven away toward the lee, and slowly began to break up and take flight.

Into the night, as the disabled hulks drifted ashore on the beaches to the north and east from where the fleet had put ashore, the screams of the scalded, dying men on their decks could be faintly heard.


	13. Necessity's Cruel Design

Elaena sat with Daenerys, Quaithe, Yara Greyjoy, and Kinvara, in the shade of the royal pavilion, looking out on the grey walls of New Ghis, beyond their siege lines. Servants supplied them with persimmon wine, chilled with ice, welcome indeed in the damp heat of the Monsoon, although as usual, Daenerys did not drink. Two hundred yards away, she saw the long arm of War Wolf, their mightiest trebuchet, shoot up in the air as it hurled a hundred pound iron ball, which then slammed into the city wall, seconds later. For three weeks, they had besieged the city, while their navy blockaded it from the sea. On the back of Drogon, she had destroyed three attempts by survivors of the enemy fleet to run the blockade.

The slaves in the coastal hinterland and on the neighbouring island of Ghaen had revolted, making their conquest straightforward. The freed slaves were only too eager to sell produce to the besiegers. Both the neighbouring island and the coastland had been much less affected by war than Astapor or Yunkai, and so could support a large army and navy. The hot rains of the Monsoon made the siege an unpleasant experience, but morale remained high among the besiegers. Strict attention to hygiene, and regular rotation of the soldiers out of the siege lines had meant there was little problem so far with disease. The enemy were concentrated in the city itself. In truth, the besieging army barely outnumbered the iron legions within the city, but offering open battle, in the face of Drogon, would have been suicidal for the defenders. At the outset of the siege, they had released a number of slaves. These had told Daenerys that thousands of their number had been packed into shelters on the walls, or else concentrated in strategic locations in the city. Any attempt to use dragonfire thus risked the lives of thousands of innocents. Elaena was disgusted, but in no way surprised. Daenerys had simply ordered that when the city was taken, the leaders would be impaled. No one demurred. It meant they had to resort to normal siege tactics, mining and bombarding the walls. No doubt slaves would still die, but in smaller numbers.

Yara Greyjoy, though, had come to suggest a more ruthless course, tit for tat. She had pointed out that thousands of the freeborn population remained alive. If the defenders were using the slaves as human shields, why not round up the freeborn, and drive them before their own men up to the city’s walls? Or else, hurl them by trebuchet into the city? At first, Elaena had wondered if she was joking, but no, Yara was deadly serious. "There's nothing more dangerous in war than half measures" she insisted. "Let's get our retaliation in first". So far, the suggestion had been rejected, but there was no doubt that the Queen was impressed by her commitment. Elaena wondered if it would come to such measures, eventually.

She saw Daario trot up on horseback, with a party of riders. He dismounted and saluted.

“How long before we can assault the city?” enquired the Queen, rising. The rest of her court followed, the walk with her as she walked and spoke with Daario.

“Perhaps another fortnight, your Grace” he replied. “Our siege engines are taking a toll.”

“What do we know of the defences inside the city?”

“There’s been a steady trickle of deserters, and some escaped slaves. As far I know, it’s similar to Astapor. Even once we’ve breached the walls, we’ll be fighting our way in, street by street.”

“But the slaves? Will they rebel?”

“They’ve seen their fellows used as human shields. I think there’s every chance they will,” Daario answered with a kind of grim cheerfulness, trying to keep their hopes up about their prospects.

Daenerys was less sure. “Can we rely on these defectors? They might be lying to us.”

“Their stories are consistent. Besides, they know their lives are forfeit, if they’ve deceived us. Who’s this, your Grace?” He nodded at a prisoner, who sat before them, hands bound, at the spot in the complex of tents to which they had now arrived.

“The Legate of an iron legion, Grazdan Mo Hazdahr. Caught trying to flee the city. I think we should return him to his fellows,” Daenerys suggested, with a trace of ominous coolness in her voice. The man babbled in fear, objecting to the very idea. No doubt he expected the Ghiscari to execute him as a traitor. Elaena knew full well that Daenerys had something else in mind.

Daenerys rose and nodded to a pair of Unsullied. “Bring him”, she commanded. The Unsullied prodded the Legate to his feet with the butts of their spears. The rest of the party, apart from Kinvara, who had some other business to attend, followed the Queen; and she led them towards the siege lines. Elaena wondered if it might have been wiser to keep the man as a prisoner, but he had already been put to the question. She certainly felt no pity for what was about to happen to him. The defenders had been offered quarter, and had refused; on their own heads be it. The Unsullied kept prodding him forward, until the party reached War Wolf. The crew of the trebuchet bowed low as they approached.

“I want this man returned to his city” the Queen informed the commander. The man caught her meaning immediately and laughed.

“Of course, your Grace. Load him up,” he ordered his men.

The man shrieked, finally realising what was about to happen. He tried to run, but Daario dealt him a hard blow to the head that sent him sprawling. A pair of men trussed his legs, while he lay on the ground. “Your Grace, I can be useful to you! Spare me!” he screamed. Daenerys ignored him. The men who had tied him picked him up under his arms, and deposited him in a sack, which was then tied to a rope, attached to a hook, protruding from the arm of the trebuchet. The man cried and writhed, but he had no chance of escape.

Yara Greyjoy grinned coldly and removed a gold coin from her purse, and tossed it in the air, before catching it again. “Five Volantene honors. Three to one says you can’t get him over the wall.”

“Bet taken, your Grace” replied the commander. He spent some time, examining the counterweight, obviously keen to win fifteen gold honors. He gave a squint at the wall through his spy-glass, and then satisfied, nodded to the engineers, who winched back the arm, as far as it would go, to account for the extra weight. He then released the ratchet. Grazdan gave a sudden shriek as he was hurled into the air, and sped towards the wall. Elaena thought he’d clear the battlement, but he clipped one of the crenalations, then teetered in the balance, before sliding back down the wall. The crew groaned. The commander smiled ruefully, as he handed Yara a gold piece.

They wandered back to the pavilion. She saw the red priestess in earnest discussion with a pair of strangers. Both men bowed as they approached.

“Your Graces” began one, a young blond-haired man who did not completely want for the looks of a Dragon-lord himself, with violet eyes, speaking in the High Valyrian tongue, “my name is Ser Edric Dayne. I am the Lord of Starfall, in Dorne. My companion is Ser Damon Sand. I have come to beg you to liberate my country.”

“The news he brings is horrifying” remarked Kinvara. “It confirms what my fires have told me.”

“I know the creature that rules Kings Landing is evil. And we’ve heard ugly rumours, from the West”, remarked Yara, her expression turning grim. “Tell us more.”

“You are Queen Yara Greyjoy of the Iron Islands?” asked Ser Edric.

“I am.”

“Then this concerns you too. And you are truly returned from the dead, your Grace?” he asked Daenerys.

“For a time.” That sounded ominous, thought Elaena.

“Fetch Arya Stark” said Kinvara to the guards. “She needs to know about this.” They all waited until Arya appeared. She had accompanied the army on its campaign, well-treated, but still closely guarded, somewhere between a high-value prisoner and an honoured guest. “Arya Stark is sister to the usurpers” she explained to the Dornishman. “But, she does not support them.”

“Lady Arya and I have met before. The Seven Kingdoms are governed by monsters. King Brandon rules by terror. He and his clique have murdered and plundered their subjects. Thousands of his soldiers have invaded Dorne, led by the Imp of Lannister, and a pair of sellswords, Bronn Stokeworth and Urswyck. They’ve butchered thousands of my people, men, women and children. We’ve been fighting them as hard as we can, but we lack the soldiers to drive them from our towns and strongholds. But, there is worse than that. I’m sorry to say, my lady,” he nodded to Arya, “but your sister is a slaver.”

“I know that,” Arya replied unhappily. “I don’t know how she could sink so low. My parents would have been disgusted with her, were they still alive.”

“Regardless, she has invaded the Iron Islands. And, I hate to say it, but I’ve been told that she’s taken many of your own people as slaves, your Grace.”

“Bitch! I’ll drown her myself!” snarled Yara. She saw Arya wince.

“I have no happy memories of my time in the Seven Kingdoms”, remarked Daenerys. “I saved your land from demons of ice and snow, and then from the tyrant who ruled in Kings Landing. Two of my dearest friends, two of my dragons, and thousands of my men perished. For this, I was repaid with hatred, scorn, and in the end, a knife in the heart, by a man who had pretended to love me.”

Elaena, tense, heard a sharp intake of breath from Arya, but the girl held her tongue, and the Queen continued.

“My first inclination is to say that you reap what you sow. You chose tyrants, so live with the consequences.” Elaena saw Dayne’s face fall. “However, I owe Queen Yara a huge debt of gratitude. Of course I must save her people. Nor in fairness, can I blame the Smallfolk for the actions of their leaders. The commons never wronged me. And I have scores to settle as well, not least with the Imp, before my time is done. That man wormed his way into my confidence, and then betrayed me repeatedly. I promise you that he will die screaming! So, yes, I will return to the West, but I must also give thought to the safety of my Eastern subjects. Kinvara, will you please look after our guests”. The red priestess led the two men away.

“So what do we do?” asked Daenerys. “We have a siege to finish here, but innocents are suffering in the West, not least, your own people, Yara.” Grey Worm joined them for the discussion. Daario, whose loathing for Jon Snow and the Imp burned fierce, was for ending the siege, and striking West immediately. He pointed out that the Ghiscari had lost their fleet, and all their lands other than their capital city. They could be finished off by local forces, suggesting that the campaign be handed over to Skahaz Mo Kandaq. Yara, naturally worried about the fate of her own people, was for returning West as soon as they could as well. Quaithe and Grey Worm argued equally strongly that they must finish the Ghiscari first, lest they recover their power. Arya was not invited to give an opinion, and Daenerys remained silent, listening to the others. Eventually, she turned to Elaena, and commanded her to speak. “You are my sword. Let’s have your view.” Elaena had learned much of war in the past months, and had been thinking hard, during the discussion.

“I long to strike at the Queen’s enemies in the West. But, we can’t leave this siege unfinished. There are tens of thousands of slaves in this city, still waiting for us to liberate them. But,” she addressed Yara directly “I think we can also save your people, by finishing slavery in this region. Without buyers, no more slaves will be sent out here. Most will be sold to Myr, Tyrosh, Pentos and Lys. I would suggest we seize all those cities when we sail West. We can both use them as bases for our invasion of the Seven Kingdoms, and liberate all their slaves, including your people, Queen Yara. From there, we can take the Stepstone and Tarth, and then strike directly for the Blackwater, and force the usurper to recall his forces to defend his capital. As for this city, my advice is that we take it by storm. The cost will be great, but we will save the slaves in the city from the horrors of prolonging the siege, and the sights within, the thanks of the liberated and their pitiful and mean condition, will remind our soldiers that the cost was not in vain.” She saw Daenrys nodding vigorously as she spoke.

“Out of the mouths of babes and infants,….” Remarked the Queen. “We shall do as Elaena suggests.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jon liked the life that his decision had granted to him. In the end, he managed to lead almost two thousand, perhaps a little bit more, of people to the furthest north. Some were runaway slaves, others refugees from his sister’s misrule, or else free folk who sought a new life. The valley of the Thenns was naturally quite comfortable. It had natural heat in the ground, like Winterfell. The water came out of the ground boiling hot, and ran in clear and wonderful streams through the valley, even in the midst of the worst winter. The natural heat of the ground made it harder to freeze in winter, and the local climatic conditions had isolated the valley from the terrible winds that blew west to east, and properly protected, made those winds dump less snow fall, so that while there was enough rain in summer, in winter the snow was not an unmanageable mass.

Every so often, trickles of other southerners arrived. The Free Folk allowed them passage when they asked; others, of course, joined the Free Folk. They also did not complain that there was some measure of law in the Vale of the Thenns, since the Thenns had always had law, unlike the other folk beyond the wall. The settlers had begun to restore the open-air temples, and the bronze works, so that they could soon start making their own bronze. They had set the ground to till, in the strong springing of the year. A harvest would come in due time and when it did, food would be plentiful, and the children would be healthy. The air was as fresh and clear as any man could ask, and the fast running streams washed the effluent down and away from the Vale. There was room for many more people.

Many of the buildings of the Thenns had remained. Of course, there was a feeling of a tomb—the last of the Thenns had been destroyed by the Night’s King and the winter, and there were no corpses or bodies, because he had used his dark magic to raise them. The clean lack of burials and the intact buildings, though there were ruins and signs of battle in other places, was ominous. To make up for it, the people had insisted on honouring the graves and tombs of the Thenns who, before the war for the dawn, had been buried in generations past, in hopes of placating the spirits of the land to their occupation. The Men of the North understood well such things.

Aye, it was clean living, and about that, Jon could have few complaints. The Northerners did not trust him to lead, but in a community this smaller, they did not trust anyone to lead, as such. A meeting of all the adult men settled matters; Glover kept the laws, and so had some of the influence he would have in a past life, but he was hardly a Lord here. Jon, they had agreed, was best fit to command the militia, but it had not needed to be called; and he also usually led the hunting parties, and both these roles they had agreed were suitable for him, and he had accepted that consensus of the Valley Folk, as they called themselves now, with equanimity.

It gave him plenty of time to reflect on what he had done wrong in life, after all, and there was certainly plenty of that. He lived alone with Ghost, and made no attempt to flirt with or court the women. Jon felt no desire to perpetuate the Targaryen Madness, let alone his own black reputation. He would live and die with Ghost, helping these refugees from his sister’s reign as his means of atonement for the evil he had done, and that would be that.

But there was some real contentment, and it did matter. The best times were like this one, when he was perfectly alone except for Ghost, one man against the wild. Climbing through high elevation in the mountains, chasing elk, with big heavy carcasses to butcher on the spot and bring the meat back, both on his own back and on a travois for Ghost. It would easily keep for days in the cool at this altitude in the mountains, even in summer. The hunting was necessary, since until they had a harvest in, food was thin on the ground (though they had found reserves of dried food left by the last of the Thenns, another reason to be thankful to the spirits of those who had gone before).

Here, at this elevation, the trees grew thin. The air was sharp and crisp. Pushing through the trees that now grew shorter and shorter with elevation, he was following the scat of elk which grazed at this level—in low numbers, but far from predators. He stopped near the tree line, wondering if he over-shot his quarry. But as he pushed through the firs and beeches, beyond, he could see a gleam of white.

It was a glacier, and in one of those circumstances, going from the dense forest in front of him, which occluded it from view, to the direct line of sight with a flanking valley to the one he was in, which went high up the mountain. It seemed to be aligned with the very heights of a very tall mountain, descending from the higher glaciers ringing it in a single sharp tongue of brilliant white that hurt his eyes. On the other side of this mountain, it was said, were endless plains and ice-covered mountains, entirely of solid white—an unending sheet of ice.

Looking ahead, directly parallel to the glacier and along the flank, he realised that the rising sun was pointing nearly into a cave. It was only three days from the solstice, and… _yes,_ the sun would track toward the cave over the next three days. In the ancient faith, then, that was said to be a place of great power, and Jon felt an uneasy chill come over him. There was power in it, he had no doubt. Ghost growled softly. With a moment’s hesitation, he chose to investigate, feeling that he had no right to turn away from the Gods, and if it turned out to be such a fell power as this, it might be their duty to come here and lay offerings to propiate it. Perhaps the Thenns had in their time. 

As he walked, however, the power in the air seemed bent, as though it wanted to draw him toward the glacier, as much as toward the cave. Closing in, he could see several apertures in the glacial— _ice caves,_ he realised, suddenly. The ice caves and the rock cave, were on perfectly perpendicular axes. The ice caves would thus always be in shadow. At the throat of one, he felt a dark chill slip across him, and he reached for the hilt of his sword. 

V alyrian Steel had some old power to it. He felt stronger and more confident for having the metal bared, as he walked into the ice cave, with the cold of the ice all around, and the air seeming to faintly glow with the light reflected through the masses of ice. Stepping back further and further into the cave, the reflected light slowly faded, but never quite disappeared entirely, slipping through the frozen mass above in a gentle and diffuse glow. It must be incredibly pure; something that had lasted for untold aeons. 

There was a creeping feeling of power. It slipped into his veins, and it pumped through his heart. It whispered to him.  A clammy sweat gripped to his body, and he reached out to grab Ghost’s fur for reassurance and strength. The bond with his Direwolf was strong. But he could feel around him the world seem to go  _flat,_ like he were looking at other things, different things, dread things, out of the corner of his eyes. And he could never quite see them… A flat canvas, as all sound fled. 

_Who were you the last time you lived?_

It was like a gentle voice, which yet was the sound made, of ice grinding and crunching against itself as it broke, had whispered those words from his left, and he understood them. Jon whipped left—there was a flanking cave, it would have to be aligned within this terrible hole, with the one in rock in the mountain. A cave facing the sun’s alignment, in eternal shadow.

There, the darkness seemed to also be light, as if one could see by a blacklight in the cavern. In this awful moment, Jon could clearly see a woman’s body laid out on an altar. But it was no normal altar, it was the work of the oily black stone, that Maesters spoke of in queer places of the world.

And she was no normal woman.

Shaped in the form of a woman of humankind, but immensely tall, six foot or more, she lay in repose on the altar—her body of shock white, a colour and form like living ice. Her hair was like a cascade of ice wool. For a moment, Jon thought that she was a statue, but instead, he realised, she drew breath.

She drew breath, but did not wake.

Her nude body was perfect and complete and to any living man, attractive despite her nature, almost embarrassingly so.

And it was then that, of course, Jon realised precisely who he was looking at: The Night’s _Queen._

The Night’s King, after all, had once been a man. It was said a strange woman of ice, he had seen from the wall, and gone mad with love for. Chasing her, when he gave her his seed, he lost his soul; and came south, to rule the Night’s Watch as a terrible organisation, given over to sacrifice to the Others. Only when the Free Folk under Joramun and the Starks in Winterfell came together to defeat him was the North freed from a horrifying iniquity of human sacrifice and depravity with the Night’s Watch having been turned into an ensorcelled service in the name of the darkest evil.

The Long Night had not been caused by the Night’s King. He had not even existed yet when that fateful hour had passed. But this woman-monster had. His body went perfectly cold in horror at just how incomplete their knowledge, and perhaps their victory, had been at Winterfell.

He felt like something was watching him, and not the inhuman woman sleeping on the altar. With a piercing horror, Jon’s eyes tore themselves away from her form, and upwards. In an alcove, showing bare rock, oily black stone, thrusting up through the glacier, and surrounded by ice—there stood a monolith, perfectly formed, of the same stone. It was so perfect that he could not quite make out the edges, as if they were not quite there.

There was a rushing feeling in his body, as if his soul were trying to pull free from his body, and go flying toward the monolith. Ghost whined, in some existential pain of even an animal at seeing the fearsome stone.

For a moment, Jon had a vision of a million stars, and a billion years, crowding through the stone. In each of them was death. A scream, unheard but felt, a scream of untold souls, tore through his very being.

Following hot on its heels, a power, a force, drove down into his mind. It tore into the blocks and protections that Val had given him, and the magical energy behind it seemed to have the force of uncounted screaming souls. A hideous energy suffused the cold air, once so crisp and clear, that now felt like molasses entrapping and drowning him.

He turned away, spinning, stumbling. He fled as fast as he could, only the feeling of Ghost right alongside of him keeping him going. He drew from his wolf’s strength—he ran and he ran, stumbling on the rock. The pressure in his head whispered _things_ to him, things of power, he could see, in the whispered vision, his banners commanding the whole of the realm. The whole of the world. 

Forever. 

_Souls._

The nightmare, the monster. It wanted souls, it wanted the essence of the living. Its power was incomparable, and he felt himself slowing, crawling, even as the power weakened, was he really moving forward, or had he stopped? Did the world have colour, features, forms anymore? 

He felt something granting him a measure of power. Fire and ice, heat and cold. He stumbled on, tearing his clothes and cutting his skin on the rock, barely remembering to drag his sword with him, keeping it, indeed, only because it seemed the sword itself lent him some queer kind of power.

At last, Jon Snow plunged out of the ice cave. He was horrified to see that it was dark out; breathing hard, gasping, trembling, it had seemed like he had been inside the cave only for bare minutes, but it had been hours, half a day at least. Stumbling over the scree pile at the base of the glacier, he felt horrified, exhausted, squeezed of energy and life as if he had been tortured for days. He fled down the mountain in an awful panic, feeling no sense of shame at his headlong flight from the horrible power with which he had contended. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Trebuchets were the heavy artillery of the Middle Ages, prior to the invention of reliable cannon. They were usually given names. War Wolf was a trebuchet owned by Edward I.
> 
> 2\. The Volantene honor is a small gold coin, the size of a British penny. In terms of value, it would likely be worth a similar amount to the Byzantine solidus, about a fortnight's wage for a soldier.
> 
> 3\. A travois is a kind of small sled for a dog to haul over ground or snow.
> 
> 4\. The Night's Queen, from the ASOIAF legends, was the origin of the Night's King, who came long after the Long Dark.


	14. A Crown of Slaves

The two girls had stayed at a certain remove. Arya was older, but not by many years. Elaena was in favour, and Arya was not; but Elaena knew she was watched, and taking up friendships with the Queen’s enemies would cause trouble for her. Also; she loved the Queen, and sincerely wanted to prove herself worthy of Drogon, even if it seemed that she would never live long enough to accomplish that.

But over the course of the operations at New Ghis, she had been aware of Daenerys’ growing ease with her. Daenerys trusted her counsel, but also, their flights on Drogon became more relaxed and carefree. More often than not, Elaena felt the Queen behind her settle her hands down on Elaena’s, and control the chains and whip through her hands, gripping her flesh. Elaena began to understand why Daenerys had preferred a woman for this role; a man might never be able to countenance the level of subservience it required.

It had prospered her well, however. The soldiers and officers saluted as she stepped into the occupied villa behind the lines, which served as the location of the Queen’s kitchens and much of the administrative staff. It was here that Arya Stark was the Queen’s guest. Elaena, for her part, slept in a tent in the section of the camp for most of the regular officers; but she did know enough about Arya to in fact discern that she would likely be more comfortable as Elaena’s tent-mate than in this place.

The older girl looked absolutely bored when Elaena arrived at her apartments. “M’lady,” Elaena acknowledged. She was in the dress of a dragonrider, with trousers, not the proper dress of a lady herself, based on her read of the other woman, so she saluted, instead of curtsying.

“Aren’t you a lady yourself?” Arya said, amused that someone had come to talk informally—also eyeing her riding gear with what Elaena thought was a real intelligence.

Elaena grinned. “I’m the Queen’s Sword. She’s never specified if I’m a Lady or not, though most people assume.”

“If this is being a Lady, I’m rather bored myself,” Arya answered diffidently. “I had meant to adventure, and this is just a gilded cage. Sit, if you like—Elaena. But call me Arya.”

“Arya, thank you.” Elaena sat, shifting the scabbard on the curved sword she carried for personal defence in the camp, which hung on a loose double-strapped belt. “You must realise that Her Grace is on the fence about you. You are from a family that wounded her terribly.”

“I _know.”_ Arya glared for a moment. “It was wrong. What Sansa did was wrong. What Jon did was wrong. And I don’t know, I don’t have the slightest idea of what happened to my brother. He turned into a monster, and I fear that what holds him is magic just as dark as the Night’s King. There are dark things in the furthest North, and if all of those stories were true, which came true in the war, why aren’t all the others?”

Elaena bit her lip. “Well, it’s true that Kinvara says Daenerys still has a purpose against the Great Other. She doesn’t think in the slightest it was the Night’s King, and I agree with her. I don’t see how he could have lasted five minutes against the full power of Valyria, or even the Rhoynar; there’s no way he could have been a threat to the whole world.”

“Yes. Any of the nations of old had the magic to pin his army, and then kill him. I was a single girl, with a single blade. It was a feat, sure, but nothing more than what any quick and fit soldier might carry home with luck, courage and daring. Only the ice dragon was a threat, and fairly matched with dragons of fire.”

“I wonder though…” Elaena frowned. “I sometimes wonder if the Doom was a work of a darker power.”

“It was no loss to the world, and even Her Grace might have the courage to admit that now,” Arya wagered boldly.

Elaena grimaced for a moment, but then nodded. “We were slavers,” she acknowledged hoarsely. “Slavery was always written into the bones of Essos.”

“I’ve come to hate it. And I’ve come to hate half measures against it. As I told the Faceless Men, why did they grant the slaves of old the mercy of Death? Why didn’t they lead them to revolt?”

“Well, isn’t that what the Queen is doing here, now?”

“It is, and that’s why I’m sitting here,” Arya sighed.

“You’re clearly festering here, and your talents aren’t used at all. I came to talk about that.”

Arya side-eyed her for a moment. “Alright. Have it out, then.”

“You are courageous, and you have a reputation that has been spreading, since the Unsullied, the Dothraki, as survivors of the North, they still speak of what you did there. Perhaps they are not flattering, because of what your family did; but still, soldiers speak. You are known to be the one who put down an evil monster. Do you want to be free? There’s only one way Her Grace will ever countenance it. You need to prove your loyalty to her cause. There are slaves on the other side of that wall, Arya, and they cry out for freedom. In fact, we’ve already decided to try storming the city. It will spare the slaves from famine as the siege wears long, even if it may condemn some of them to die in the storming in the short term. It’s the best option. I argued it before Her Grace, and now, I need people to true it. I will present to Her Grace that you should receive a full pardon if you join the assault, and take a picked body ahead.”

“When Her Grace assaulted King’s Landing, the result was only a terrible slaughter—half the city was burned. I was there. She rained down fire on women and children. I admit, that was not the case for Yunkai or Astapor, but I have no desire to participate in a massacre of the slaves you say we’ve come to save,” Arya answered. “Pardon or not.”

Elaena frowned, and sighed. The Queen had conversed with her about the circumstances around King’s Landing several times. “That was worse than a crime,” she dared: “It was a mistake. One, I might add, she paid the highest price for, and is one of a very few people who’ve had the chance to reflect upon it. She deeply regrets her loss of control. She feels nothing but horror and remorse for what she did. But, her best friend, as you well know, and only confidante, was executed on the walls just before, and the enemy had refused terms.”

“New Ghis has also refused terms,” Arya snapped. “It might well be lawful, but it was also more than a ‘mistake’. And I prefer to follow my principles, whatever the laws men have constructed to justify their decisions. It was _wrong,_ to kill innocents.”

“It was, and Her Grace remains miserable of it to this day,” Elaena at last acknowledged. “But, these things we speak about in confidence – Her Grace’s natural disposition is one of deep compassion. This haunts her, Arya. She was desperate. She knew she was surrounded by people working to bring her down. The Imp had betrayed her from the outset, she suspected it then, and she knows it now. The Spider, Varys, do you know, he attempted to poison her, conscripting a young kitchen girl to do so? I regret to say, the evidence suggests that your sister was a party to this plot."

Arya gave a sound of disgust.

"Your brother. I hate to say it, but he left her to twist in the wind. He made clear to the Queen that he found her repulsive. The morning of the attack, she believed she had been set up to be killed, by those she once thought she could trust, after she had won their war for them. They pushed her over the brink. That does not excuse what she did. She will never forgive herself for it. But can you not credit her, in her humanity, the ability to learn? And can you at least credit me the survival instinct, that I would not act to place myself before the Queen’s Justice?We are, in fact, planning the storm exactly to save people from starvation. And yes, some slaves will die—they are being kept as hostages on the walls. But we have no choice. And the starvation would be worse.”

Arya looked down onto the fine tile, faintly scuffed when the Villa was seized. “What would be our mission, if I succeed?”

Elaena faced her and spoke levelly. “I will be plain with you, I am asking you to command the Forlorn Hope.”

“They call it that for a reason.” Arya’s tone was level, but Elaena could see in her eyes a flash of interest.

“You were in more danger facing the Dead. And, if you succeed, it will remove your own fears for the city, for if we take the breach with the Forlorn Hope, only a brief application of dragonfire against the reserves will suffice to gain us the city.”

Arya nodded sharply. “It’s a damned job, Elaena. But you’ll try it with or without me, and you’re right. Either she’s learned, or I can make no difference at all. Well. You’re intercede for a pardon?”

“I’m not sure I will even have to, if you take New Ghis. But no matter what the result is, yes I will.”

“And if I die?”

“Is there anything that you would have me do, in that case? Since I know you northerners prefer a burial; I could offer to dig your grave with my own hands.”

“I don’t mind being burnt. But I would access you to try and at least convince the Queen to spare Gendry Waters’ life—the Lord of the Stormlands—he was still just a Blacksmith’s son when he was made a Lord, and probably overwhelmed by his Maester and Septon to not speak up for the Queen who made him from a Bastard to a Lord. He at least deserves a chance to go to the Night’s Watch. Fair?”

“Fairly met,” Elaena nodded, and felt better about this. That Arya thought first of someone else spoke well of her. “I’ll intercede on his behest if you are not around to do it yourself.”

Arya got up, and Elaena did too. They both clasped their arms in agreement, for a moment, and then Elaena stepped away. “Expect someone to come for you, and bring you to your unit, and arrange the return of your sword, and let you have your pick of arms. Probably tomorrow morning.”

“See you in the city?”

Elaena tipped a salute. “Lord Willing.”

* * *

The hammering of War Wolf and the considerable battery of trebuchets and other pieces of mechanical artillery which supported the assault on the walls had inevitably taken their toll. The walls on the mainland were much older and more grand than those of New Ghis, the city settled by the survivors of the last Ghiscari War against Valyria. Instead of being static, the city had grown over the years, and several times required new walls. These had kept the outermost which now existed comparatively small—and on an island, the first line of walls was the wooden ones.

The breach they had forced in the walls, though, was a small one. They had wagons filled with sections of wooden ramps, and a battalion of pavise bearers to cover the groups of engineers who would fit them. Arya’s half-battalion—any more would just cram and disorder themselves against the small breach—was fitted with swords, shields and half-pikes. Two battalions of crossbowmen, covered by more pavises, would support them by advancing close in on either flank.

To get as close as they could, Arya had her men cover themselves in grease, to blend in with the grass, hiding or dyeing hair. They muffled all of their armour and arms by wrapping them with wet scraps of cloth. The main force hung back, and a smaller select group under Arya’s personal leadership pushed forward in the darkness, waiting for them to

Behind them, she well knew, they would be bringing in the repeating ballistae—the feared weapons of Mantarys now incorporated in Daenerys’ Army—quietly hauling them forward of the trenches into which War Wolf and the other trebuchets had done their work. Ideally, they would be able to cover Arya’s assault in the morning. Canvas was used to cover the ballistae until the last minute from the rain, and the crossbowmen kept the strings of their bows well-oiled to keep them from soaking through in the rain.

She led them herself, pushing them forward toward a narrow little ravine that had formed over the years near the walls. Subtle erosion, especially when water was redirected around an artificial object like the walls, could provide thin cover. Time after time, she crawled on her belly out to another unit, to encourage them, and with whispered orders, make sure that each little body of troops moved into place, until they were all in that low depression, two hundred paces from wall, about halfway from the trebuchet positions. It was nice cover, but in the midst of the monsoon, the bottom held a foot of water, and it was a miserable experience.

Then they settled down to wait in the mud, their weapons oiled. It would be generally agreed that a storming attempt might be signalled by Drogon taking flight, so no preparations were being taken by Elaena, to avoid making the defenders aware of the impending attempt; she would just rush, when it was underway.

Breathing low and slow, Arya rested, and waited, with her cheek pressed into the muddy grass lining the upper part of the slope, pressed against the earth in a position as close as she could be to the enemy. She could hear the sounds of men working, to reinforce the defences where the breach was, doubtless mostly slaves. Of course, they could try now, but a night assault carried all kinds of special hazards. There were stories of Armies which had routed themselves in the chaos of one, fighting phantom enemies; so it had not been part of the plan.

There were few more terrifying things, than to bed down in the open, under a sky alternately spackled with stars and clouds, in the darkness—within range of the enemy archers on the walls. Absolute silence was demanded, as you could hear men work, making your job harder, so close to you. To speak, to laugh, to cheer up the man next to you, anything might be the doom of you and your comrades.

You had to wait, and be _quiet._ And Arya, in the experience she had with such waiting, hoped she could only inspire her men until the pre-dawn began to gather into light, light enough to make hiding impossible—light enough to make storming possible. Each minute they were not discovered by the enemy pickets, guarding the work parties (and keeping them from escaping to Daenerys’ lines), was another painfully silent minute closer toward victory, or at least, an end to uncertainty.

The shadows began to gather and shift. A faint grey washed the black, and changed quick, with the kind of fat, brilliant sunrise in the offing, fighting the clouds of the monsoon, casting a warm clean light in contrast to the ground on which they lay. Her body went tense from head to toe. The hour was at hand.

“Send the word to be ready down the line.”

Men patted each other in warning, and whispered, as with a small bit of pressure, Arya loosed her sword from the sheath, ready to draw. The whistle in her other hand was just as important, though. Her main job, after all, was to lead, not to fight. In fact, she was more than a little scared, just like she had been before the battle with the dead, but she had learned the talent of putting aside fear when she leapt into motion, and it held no power over her anymore.

And there were slaves on the other side of that wall for them to free.

The first ray of dawn split the sky, and at this signal, Arya rose up, drawing her sword and beginning to blow her whistle. As she blew, and blew again, the assemblage of the company around her, numbering about two hundred, surged into view before the city, men bearing up scaling ladders and ramps and tight-wound bundles of straw wrapped in leather. As they finished forming their ranks, Arya grinned wryly and pulled out a sphere of glass from her belt, set it down on the ground. _Here goes…_

She kicked it, carefully, with the side of her foot, but as much force as she could put behind it. It sailed through the dawn’s eye for a breathless moment, and then slammed into the ground, well ahead of their position, and exploded into a sharp tongue of green flame. Arya pointed her sword for it. “Follow the fire, Lads! Forward! Forward! Quickly now, forward!”

One of the ballistae loosed another such sphere, which sailed overhead and potted itself down into the lower part of the rubble pile along the wall, with another such tongue of flame. “ _Follow the fire, lads_!” Arya screamed again, blowing her whistle as she charged ahead.

Already, ready companies of archers had been assembled on the walls on each flank of the breach. They nocked and loosed their first volley just after the second wildfyre ball fell. Since they had been in the cover of passages in the walls all the night, their bowstrings were dry. Men went down in the ranks, and again. Several times, Arya noticed with a flash an arrow appear in the ground afore her, or from the corner of her eye to her side. But she reached the wall, positioned by the tongue of flame.

Now, behind them, the second company of the half-battalion was coming up. With them, too, the crossbow-men and pavise bearers covering them. They advanced as a hail of stone and bolts began from both the ballistae to the rear, and the enemy’s on the walls. But, the damage to the walls had interrupted the arcs of fire from the towers, and gave them cover they otherwise should not have had.

“Argyros!” She called to her sergeant. “Start throwing down the bundles and ramps!”

Under fire, they packed gaps and voids in the rubble pile with the bundles, and threw the ramps up, securing them with string. Cowering down, they continued to take murderous casualties, but as they completed the works, Arya could see that, as she’d hoped, there was a shield-wall waiting to receive them. Standing on the pile of rubble, it was disorderly, which gave them a fair chance, and she was confident it was the wrong move to defend so far forward.

When the second company of her half-battalion reached her position, she blew her whistle once more, and now with the archers distracted by the crossbowmen trying to suppress them, they surged up the ramps and beaten paths on the rubble pile, and charged the shield wall from below. All around, men were falling and dying. They were close enough now that defenders were hurling rocks down on them from the undamaged flanks of the walls. But, the men formed up to defend against them directly were not in good order, and coming from below, half pikes were thrust up around their shields, doing horrible injuries to them.

Arya found herself, crouched down, gutting a man with a blow of her sword, up through the thigh. Arterial blood sprayed and he was a dead man in seconds, as she led a wedge up through the line. But their defence was unorderly and uninspired, and with his tattoos as he hit the ground dead, Arya realised they were fighting slaves impressed as soldiers, and more, too, the officers had slipped away.

 _Fuck me._ She was approximately in the centre of the line, and that was _good._ She blew her whistle. “Rally toward me, the centre, the centre! Pull back on the flanks!”

Arrows began to fall around her enmasse, as if they were only targeting her and nobody else at all, and with good reason too. A siphon and billows pump had been arranged on each flank, in positions the defenders’ engineers had worked into the damaged walls. They now sprayed scalding oil across the rubble, uncaring for the slaves they had impressed for this purpose, to conceal their real defence until the enemy’s assault was fully committed.

“ _Forward!_ ” Arya took an arrow, but the mail she wore turned it. The painful blow, she forced herself on through. A douche of scalding oil was thrown up, splashing off the rock onto which it cascaded, but only a small part, a finger of it, whipped against her forearm. It didn’t hurt after an initial terrible pain, which was the awfulest sign of all, but the quantity was so small that she could still flex her fingers after it was done. With no more thought to it, she pressed on.

Behind her, the books of War of Volantis and Mantarys mattered. The catapults and ballistae that were meant to fling rocks, now had a new purpose. The large siege units were still aimed at the breach, after all. Now, they were loaded with heavy leather sacks, sewn up at the top, filled with sand. These were fired, again and again, as fast as they could be worked.

They were no help to Arya’s troops; in fact, their impacts killed or wounded at least two dozen on their own side, as the heavy sacks slammed down into the rubble. But, bursting open, they laid a layer of gritty sand across the oil-slicked rock, cooling it, staunching fires on the wooden ramps, and making it possible for men in the later waves to ascend. Other lighter ballistae, the repeaters included, were permanently mounted on wagons, and these were drawn into place on the flanks to engage in crossing fire against the oil-siphons. The polyboli now began to fire with great execution against the crews managing the oil siphons.

Arya had carried on with the first band across the gap. They raised the Queens’ standard in the centre of the breach, and that was the signal for a general advance. She plunged down with the rest of her men, taking up positions in the rock, where an advance of a regular body of troops could be resisted. Actual Ghiscari legions were there, but their formation of pike was broken up by the rubble pile, and the little band around her fought to delay their counterattack, with a desperate effort, until the better part of a battalion of crossbowmen had reached the top. When they did, massed fire drove the Ghiscari back, and men from Daenerys’ own legions descended with sword and shield to reinforce Arya’s position, and drive back the ranks in the city. A cheer was raised through Daenerys’ entire Army, whilst a groan overcame the defenders.

Worse was to come, too. Now, in the sky above, darkening the morning’s rays of dawn, was Drogon. While there had been no safe or good targets for him before, the massed bodies of legionaires in the streets preparing to try and throw back the assault, now presented a ripe objective.

He burned them.

Behind the flames, of the four hundred that Arya had led forward, seventy-three mustered unwounded. But the Forlorn Hope had gained Daenerys the city.

* * *

One week after the city fell, Elaena stood beside on the Queen on a reviewing stand that had been erected in the Plaza of Pride, the city's main square. Drawn up around the Plaza were ten thousand of the Queen's soldiers, a mix of Unsullied, Ironborn, and Volantenes, and detachments from each of the liberated cities, weapons and equipment burnished to perfection, so that they gleamed in in the sunlight. As ever, the Queen wore a gown of cloth of silver, matching her mask and her hair, dazzling to the eyes. Thousands of curious bystanders, newly liberated slaves, had also gathered to watch the proceedings.

The Queen stepped forward, voice amplified by Kinvara and addressed them. "Comrades, Slavers Bay is no more. Every man, woman, and child has now been liberated, thanks to you. From now on, until the end of time, it will be called the Bay of Liberation!" The soldiers and freedmen cheered, apart from the Unsullied, who drummed their spears in approval. She waited for them to finish. "It is said that the labourer is worthy of his hire. The slave masters have provided us with rich spoils. Their estates will be given over to those they enslaved. Even so, there is sufficient to reward each and every soldier and sailor who has served me, and their officers, with six months' pay. For those who fell in combat, this sum will be paid to their next of kin." That was true. The Queen had ordered a ban on looting, believing, no doubt rightly, that more would be destroyed than carried off, or else sold off for a song to the merchants who had accompanied the army. Instead, the gold, silver, precious stones and chattels of the masters had been confiscated, to the benefit of the army and fleet as a whole. There was another wave of applause at this welcome news. "All of you have distinguished yourselves in this campaign; yet there are some who deserve special recognition. " Daario handed her a lengthy list of names, which she called out in turn, soldiers and sailors who had been commended by their officers for outstanding acts of bravery, among them, survivors of the Forelorn Hope. Each of them stepped forward when called upon, to receive their decorations, silver spears and shields, gold or silver torques and arm rings. It took the best part of two hours, before they were finished.

Then she turned to those on the reviewing stand. "Queen Yara Greyjoy, step forward." Yara did so. "You have shown me the utmost loyalty and valour. Before all present, I pledge to fight for the freedom of your people. I further pledge that Faircastle, The Crags, The Shield Islands, and …..Casterly Rock and its dependencies shall be added to your kingdom for all time." Yara looked shocked, although Elaena knew of the surprise. She laughed inwardly as she imagined the Imp's fury when he learned of this. The Ironborn Queen stepped forward and embraced Daenerys, as the onlookers cheered. "Qarl, step forward and kneel before me." A pink-cheeked man, sometime lover of Yara Greyjoy, he did as he was bidden. Daario handed the Queen a sword, which she used to dub him. "Arise, Ser Qarl, I now proclaim you a knight of the Seven Kingdoms!" There were loud cheers from the Ironborn.. "Grey Worm, step forward. Henceforth, you are my Master of War, and a Lord. " The Unsullied roared approval, as he thanked her. "Daario Naharis, step forward. You kept the faith when it must have seemed that all was lost. That is a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid. Before all present, I promise that when this war is finished, you will rule Volantis as Viceroy." There were more cheers.

The Queen was nearly finished, only two more announcements left. "Lady Arya Stark, step forward", she commanded. Arya did as bidden. "In return for your courage, and commitment to the cause of freedom, I formally pardon you for all offences against me. I further appoint you as a general in my army. But, there is more. Leaving aside her offences against me, your sister has proved herself unfit to reign. It is my wish that you should rule the North in her stead, when this war is done." Elaena had never expected that last. Nor had Arya, who looked shocked.

"Your Grace, that is a high honour, but I don't want to rule."

"I will not force it upon you, but your people have suffered greatly. They will need someone who cares for them to lead them in the future. I can think of no one better suited to that task than you."

"Then of course, I must accept". Just what did Daenerys intend? To let the North retain its own crown, or would they be ruled as a part of the Seven Kingdoms? But oh, how cunning! Arya's siblings could only see her as an enemy now. There was no chance of reconciliation between them. And now Elaena's turn. She felt her heart beat wildly, knowing what the Queen intended.

"Elaena Saerganyon. You are blood of my blood. You have shown courage, and wisdom, far in excess of your years. You have mounted Drogon, proving that you are favoured by the Lord of Light. You were born to a family of slavers, but you have proved your commitment to the enslaved. You have shown that you are a leader. I proclaim you Princess of Dragonstone and Summerhall, crown princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and heir general to all of my realms". Elaena felt tears spring to her eyes, as she embraced first Daenerys, and then Yara. She had been shocked when the Queen had earlier told her what she intended, indeed, had insisted she was unworthy. "A true Queen sees her throne as a burden and a responsibility" Daenerys had replied. "I believe you do, too."

There was one last surprise. Elaena had not expected it, and Daenerys certainly hadn't. Grey Worm suddenly descended from the reviewing stand, to meet a party of Unsullied who had stepped forward from the ranks of their fellows, bearing a wreath of grass and laurel. They reached the reviewing stand and saluted Daenerys. "What is this?" she asked.

"Among the legions of Old Ghis" replied Grey Worm "It was the custom for the soldiers to present a crown of grass and laurel to a victorious commander. It was the one honour that the soldiers could bestow upon their commander. We beg you to accept." The soldiers stepped up, and Daenerys bowed her head, as one of them placed it. She was trembling, and Elaena could tell she was crying, behind her mask. As she straightened, the crowd roared their acclaim, hailing her as conqueror and liberator. Elaena felt her own eyes water, as the people shouted for joy.

* * *

“The Dreadfort has been seized?” enquired Sansa,

“Regrettably so” replied Wolkan. “A man claiming to be a relative of the late Lord Bolton gathered a band of outlaws, many of them soldiers who served the Beast, and seized it from the garrison. There were only a couple of dozen defenders. I believe they were all put to the sword. Domeric Bolton he calls himself. He claims to be seeking justice for Lord Ramsay, saying that your Grace and Jon Snow slew him unjustly.”

“My only regret is I didn’t prolong his dying” she replied.

.“Quite so,” remarked her Chief Inquisitor, Yagoda. “Your Grace need have no fear. They are a rabble. I’ve organised a flying column to retake the castle. The survivors will be put to the question, and then executed. I would suggest we make a very visceral example of them.”

“Agreed” she answered. They sat in her solar at Winterfell, with Robyn Manderly, her squire. They had continued their tryst, after returning from Pyke, although she took precautions against pregnancy. He poured her another goblet of wine, her third so far. It was one of the things that helped her cope with the worries of ruling, along with Robyn himself.

“Don’t worry about them, your Grace” remarked the Inquisitor. “I am more concerned at the behaviour of Lady Barbrey Dustin of Barrowtown. I have intercepted correspondence which she has written. It was addressed to the Targaryen whore in Volantis. In it, she begged the Queen’s forgiveness for the North’s hostility towards her, and offered her fealty in return for liberating the North from “the Usurper” – by which she means you, your Grace.”

“She must die!” snarled Robyn.

“She is entitled to a trial, as a Northern peer”, reminded Wolkan.

“It would be damaging to your Grace’s regime, if it were revealed that a prominent noble was a traitor to your Grace. I would favour another course of action. One of my spies is employed in her household. It would be quite straightforward to introduce a slow-acting agent into Lady Dustin’s meals. Her passing would appear natural.”

“Let it be done” commanded Sansa. Her Inquisition now employed over six hundred people, and had thousands of informants among the population. They were worth their weight in gold; they had uncovered terrifying levels of treason and disaffection towards House Stark. And yet, none of this should have surprised her, she now realised. Few Northmen had rallied to her and Jon Snow, after all, when they fought to regain Winterfell. Vile bitch though she was, Cersei had surely been right about the need to keep potential traitors in fear of her. Still, it was uncomfortable to think that her dungeons and torture chambers saw far more use than during the rule of her father. _But he was a man. I am a woman, and they think me weak. I have no choice, but to prove them wrong. _She would never forget the first time she had seen a man questioned sharply, nearly two years ago; the smell of burning flesh, the odour of blood and shit; listening to his screams, his pleas for death, long hours before that mercy was granted him. She hadn’t slept for two nights afterwards, although she had managed to harden herself over time.__

“Any more news from the Iron Islands?” she enquired. She had left small garrisons behind on Pyke and Harlaw, now almost devoid of people. They had fled, or been sold, or deported, in the case of the children.

“No, but sooner or later the people of the remaining islands will attack. And Yara Greyjoy must eventually return, “ replied Wolkan.

“I’ll write to my brother, asking for men. There must be Westermen, only too keen to destroy their old enemies.” She felt safer, with the bulk of her army stationed in and around Winterfell, or at strategic locations in the North.

There was a knock, and a servant entered, before bowing. “Your Grace, the Noon meal will shortly be served.” The four of them got up and left. None of the others would be dining on the top table with her. They would sit at the First Mess, with other senior officials, and her ladies in waiting, Joanna Umber and Myranda Royce. She had discontinued her father’s custom of inviting senior servants to dine with him. It would be quite inappropriate for a Queen to allow such familiarity. And much as she would have loved her squire to dine with her, she had no desire to set tongues wagging, either. No, as so often, she would be dining alone, observing her courtiers. To be honest, it was all a bit of a chore. She’d rather eat in her solar, but a Queen had to show herself to her people.

She entered the Great Hall to a fanfare of trumpets, preceded by pages in black and silver silk livery, and followed by her guards, walking to the dais on which her table was set. The diners fell silent as she entered, as was fitting, and then bowed and curtsied to her. Once she was seated, the marshal of the hall signalled that the rest might follow suit. As usual, the gathering was subdued. People rarely laughed or made merry in her presence, despite the excellent fare on offer; rich broths, roast fowls and venison, lamb and pork, with a selection of fine wines and ales. She only had to enter a room, and the good humour would die away. Her attempts at wit invariably fell flat. _So be it. I have changed; from porcelain, to ivory, to steel _. The dinner would be followed by a poetry recital in High Valyrian, a language she spoke fluently, but something she knew most of her court would loathe; in her father’s time, no doubt they’d have been entertained by a professional farter, or someone equally edifying. She was determined to introduce high culture to the North, rough hairy brutes though they were. Minstrels played from the gallery as they ate.__

_Enjoy it while you can _said the traitor in her mind. She thought as she ate. Rather like picking at a scab, she was morbidly fascinated by news from the East. She insisted that her agents supply her with every scrap of information that they could glean about Daenerys Targaryen and her supporters. It appeared that they had marched East, and were finishing the Masters of Slavers Bay for good. She’d received word from Kings Landing a while ago that her sister had been located at Pentos, and that her brother’s agents would contact her, offering her funds to kill the woman for good. She’d even given a contribution. Yet, since then, she had heard nothing. Had Arya been captured and killed? There was no suggestion from her agents that the Dragon Queen’s military campaigns had ceased. Gods, Arya’s fate would be terrible if she tell into the hands of the tyrant! She longed to see her sister again, but feared she never would. Sooner or later, she knew, the Targaryen would be returning West to exact vengeance. She could only pray that her and her brother’s forces were sufficient to win, although deep down, she knew this could only end one way. _How after all, do you defeat a woman so favoured by the gods that she returns from death?_ __

She studied the faces of her courtiers as she ate (with over two hundred people working in the kitchens, some of them children from Pyke, she made sure that a team of inquisitors and tasters examined every item before it reached her). Lady Dustin’s treason was worrying, but most of the Northern nobles were weathervanes, she knew. How far did treason reach into her own court? Was there anyone she could trust? Robyn, obviously. And, probably the rest of his family; taking a nephew of the Lord of White Harbour as her squire was rightly seen as an honour. Wolkan, she hoped. She scarcely knew Joanna Umber, although the girl seemed pleasant enough. Myranda Royce, newly arrived from the Vale, was probably the closest she had to a friend among her own sex; she had treated her kindly during her time there. Yagoda? Well, he had certainly proved his worth. There were no signs of disaffection among her officials and soldiers that she knew of, but then, she had stuffed their purses with silver. She winced inwardly, as she remembered how that silver had been obtained.

With a sudden shock, she realised it must have been the same for Daenerys Targaryen, sitting in the same place, at the banquet after the defeat of the Dead, wondering if there was anyone in the hall she could trust. Certainly not her nor her siblings, nor most of their vassals, who had viewed the Dragon Queen and her followers in much the same light as something they would scrape off their boots. Thanks to her love for Jon Snow, that woman had been far more tolerant of open disloyalty, not least from Sansa herself, than she could ever be. She could admit to herself at least, had she known what the future would hold, she would never have made her own bid for power. She would have been far happier as Lady Warden of the North, ruling the territory in fact if not in name, she knew now, but the past could never be erased.

A line of poetry came to her _The moving hand hath writ and having writ moves on. Not all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The bestowal of a crown made of grass and laurel, corona graminea, on a victorious commander was the rarest honour that a Roman general could receive, less common even than a triumph. It could only be bestowed by the soldiers themselves, and would only be awarded to a commander who was loved. It seemed fitting to include it here.
> 
> 2\. The First Mess is the table set immediately below and to the left of the high table. People were seated precisely, according to rank, in medieval banquets. The Queen's chief officials and ladies in waiting would be seated there. The table on the right is called The Reward, where the most senior lords and ladies present would be seated. Lesser gentry and middle ranking officials would then be seated further down the hall, until finally, junior servants would dine at the end of the hall. The quality of food and drink would always be high, as it would be demeaning for a monarch to serve anything of poor quality, but it would become more plain the further away from top table you were. The guests on the Reward and First Mess would dine as well as Sansa. At the far end of the hall, they would be served meat pies, bread, cheese, and ale, rather than wine, lamb, and venison. They would, however, be expected to return to their duties immediately they finished, so they would be spared the poetry recital!
> 
> A kitchen staff of 200 + would be standard for a medieval royal palace. At Hampton Court, 230 people were employed in the kitchens when Henry VIII's court was present. The kitchens there are vast and well worth a visit. There could easily be a couple of thousand people living at Winterfell when Sansa is present with her court.
> 
> One final point. Forget the idea that anyone at a royal or lordly court could get away with picking up roasted joints and gnawing at them, or chucking the bones on the floor. Such behaviour would be considered grossly disrespectful towards one's host. Forks were not in common use, so people did use their fingers to eat, but servants constantly circulated with finger bowls and napkins. Sansa in particular would be on the lookout for any sign of bad manners.
> 
> 3\. It may appear that Sansa is being arrogant towards her court, compared to her father, but there is nothing egregious about her behaviour. More affable monarchs might invite high lords and officials to dine with them, but many would only seat family members or fellow monarchs or an accredited envoy from a monarch with them. She is insisting on rigid protocol, as no doubt, her mother would have done in similar circumstances, and which helps her to feel in control of events. That said, she would no doubt have been pretty sarcastic towards Jon Snow or Daenerys, had they acted similarly.
> 
> 4\. The lines of poetry at the end come from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayam, as translated by Edward Fitzgerald.
> 
> 5\. Qarl "the Maid" was of course a rather soft looking man, though perfectly capable of fighting. It must be understood that medieval sexuality does not directly map to our own cultural expectations. Generally, ASOIAF did a good job with this; for example, Queen Rhaena Targaryen, the daughter of Aenys, would likely be a lesbian by any modern definition, but was perfectly happy married to her brother, despite the lesbian relationships she had before and after. Her refusal to consummate her final marriage, with Androw Farman, was somewhat exceptional, though understandable in the context of her privileged position as a dragonriding Queen, and her experiences with Maegor. So, we write Yara being the sometimes lover of Qarl, and fond of him, but never really as fond of him as she is of the women in her life. This might be driven by a simple desire to experiment with "real" sex since relations with women would not really be considered on the same level as it. She is essentially a lesbian character, but in a lived experience appropriate for her circumstances. 
> 
> 6\. With flame being a symbol of Rh'llor, I couldn't resist but borrow, with a fire-grenade, the story of the East Surrey Regiment who advanced at the Somme to the leading man kicking a football ahead of the regiment. 
> 
> 7\. The "Forlorn Hope", from the Dutch "verloren hoop", or "lost troop". It was a folk etymology to connect this Dutch word for "troop" with "Hope", but it is appropriate enough, where Verloren and Forlorn have a slightly better connection. The French equivalent is "enfants perdus" -- the Lost Children. Verloren is however the Dutch cognate to the German Verloren, as in the WW1 song "Wo alle Straßen enden", where the refrain is "Wir sind verloren." -- We Are Lost. The Forlorn Hope was the first body of troops sent forward when storming a city. Casualties were expected to be extremely heavy.


	15. A New Age Begins

Tyrion had expected a difficult meeting of the Small Council, once his master summoned him to return from Dorne. It had been three months since the destruction of the convoy. He had conducted savage reprisals against the population, but if anything, the revolt had intensified. A fortnight before he sailed from Sunspear, Red Ronnett had been kidnapped by the rebels, when visiting a brothel. His remains had been found five miles outside the Shadow City, nailed to a tree. He had been gelded, doused in pitch, and then set alight. Tyrion had shivered at the news. If such a fate could befall his deputy, who was safe? Bronn had also been instructed to return to the capital. Urswyck, and a Reachman, Ser Adam Fossoway, had been left in charge of the army.

Vargo Hoat, the Master of Laws, wagged his long, goatish beard at Tyrion before lisping “I cut oth the hand oth your brother, the Kingthlayer. Perhapth the Kingth Grayth will command I cut oth your hand ath well, Lord Tyrion, or even a foot ath punithment for your failureth.” There was general laughter, all round the Small Council Chamber, save for Lord Commander Brienne, who looked very haggard these days. To his irritation, Tyrion saw the king joining in the general merriment. Quite how the Goat had escaped punishment from his father for Jaime’s mutilation was a mystery, but here he was on the Small Council. In Tyrion’s absence, the man had taken charge of the network of prison camps. If anything, the repression had grown more intense.

“I agree with Lord Vargo” said Bronn. “I’m afraid Tyrion has proved quite useless as commander. I can't work with him. To be fair, he has very little military experience. I mean, look at the way he fucked up the Dragon Queen’s war against his sister”. Tyrion blazed inwardly with fury at this injustice. He had betrayed Daenerys deliberately, well knowing that his military advice was bad. And he had fully expected Bronn to back him up.

“I’ve done my best, your Grace. I have obeyed your orders to the letter.”

“Do not presume to blame me for your own failings, Lord Tyrion” replied the King, darkly. “I was not to blame for your failure to meet the supply convoy. To the contrary, I warned you of its arrival. “ Oh gods, that still rankled.

“Your Grace, I punished those responsible. Most brutally.”.

“Don’t lie to me Lord Tyrion! I can see into your soul. It is black as pitch. You punished luckless villagers. The true culprits got away. The Yronwoods, and the bandit who calls himself El Matarife. Why do they remain unpunished?”

“Your Grace, it’s as much as I can do to hold on to the main towns and strongholds, with the army at my disposal. Riding into the mountains or the deep desert is like chasing shadows. I'd need more men.”

“Excuses, excuses”, remarked Grand Maester Tarly. “You were given fifty thousand men. Another six thousand have crossed the Red Mountains to reinforce them. I am no soldier, yet I have little doubt that I, or any one of us, could have done a better job than you, Lord Tyrion. A fresh approach is required. ” _Well well, what a dunghill rooster you’ve become. You didn’t even want to invade Dorne, if I recall. _  
__

__“And we have suffered over twelve thousand casualties, ” he responded hotly. “That leaves forty four thousand.”  
_ _

__“The Seven Kingdoms are largely peaceful, “ remarked the king. “Thanks in large measure to the excellent work of Lords Vargo and Allyron, and Chief Inquisitor Yagoda, in the North. You have been given immense resources Lord Tyrion, in order to pacify the smallest and poorest of the Seven Kingdoms. You have proved an abject failure. I am gravely disappointed in your record. Perhaps there is more at work here than simple ineptitude. Maybe you hope to restore yourself to the good graces of that abomination born of incest who you served formerly. Indeed, I am dismissing you as my Lord Hand”. Oh gods, was he to be sent to the camps, or the Black Cells, now? Sold, executed? (He had no illusions that the mob in the Dragonpit would just as happily see him crucified as any of his victims.) But it seemed not. “You are fortunate that I give second chances to servants who fail me. My dear sister has written to me, explaining the difficulties she has encountered on the Iron Islands. Resistance has proved fiercer than she expected. You will return to Casterly Rock. There you will raise a fresh army, and crush the Ironborn. Your people have hated them for centuries. Succeed, and you will be restored to favour. Fail me in this………” the threat was left unspoken, hanging in the air.  
_ _

__“So, what happens now, your Grace?” enquired Bronn.  
_ _

__“As Grand Master Tarly has pointed out, a new approach is required. A man of tact is needed, to apply balm to the wounds of my Dornish subjects. A soldier, and a diplomat. Uncle Brynden, please come forward. “ The man had been sitting patiently, away from the others. The Blackfish took his place, glaring at Tyrion. Well, he had no reason to love any of the Lannisters.  
_ _

__“Lord Brynden, you shall take command in Dorne, as my Hand. You are to pursue a policy of reconciliation. Let the Dornish know that their king removes those of his servants who abuse their positions. Lord Tyrion, give to Lord Brynden your badge of office.” Filled with bitterness at the injustice of it all, Tyrion removed his pin, and handed it to the other. He thought he had been a shaper of events, when in reality, he was merely a catspaw.  
_ _

__“Of course, your Grace” replied the man. Then he added, “the Imp has behaved like a fool from start to finish. If I had my way, he would be handed over to the Dornish to face judgement, at their hands. “ To his horror, he saw Tarly, Hoat, Allyron, even Brienne, nod vigorously. “Let us hope the situation is retrievable”. The Imp! He actually dared call him that to his face! Handed to the Dornish! The thought made him cringe; Daenerys would be gentle towards him, by comparison. But, the Blackfish was Hand now, after all. He could say what he pleased._ _

__“I have news from the East” continued the King. “The Targaryen whore is enjoying great military success. Yunkai and Astapor have fallen to her, and she will assault New Ghis. It appears that my sister has failed to slay her, notwithstanding your efforts, Lord Tyrion. I do not know yet whether that is down to a fault on your part, bad luck, or to treason on the part of my sister. If it should prove that my sister is in fact a traitor, then she will suffer the fate of all traitors. No one, however close to me they may be, is exempt from my justice.”__

__Well, Tyrion had no problems on that score. Others might have the option of making timely surrender to Daenerys Targaryen; he knew that his own dying would be slow and painful indeed, should she prevail. As for Arya Stark, well, he preferred his women voluptuous, rather than slim and boyish. She seemed the type who’d favour her own sex, anyway. She’d be no loss to the world if she had indeed switched sides. Quite unlike her sister. Gods above! He remembered Sansa's naked body, full-breasted and luscious, on the night of their wedding. A piece of cake, just waiting to be eaten. What a fool he'd been, not to claim his rights as her husband! She wouldn't even have dared resist him, though some resistance on her part, and a few sharp cuts of his belt across her beautiful pale arse, might have added spice to their nuptials. Despite the man’s dreadful end, he could not but feel a stab of envy for Ramsay Bolton, for the things he had got to do with his gorgeous bride, things that few noble wives would willingly consent to. Not that different really, to the things he got to do with his whores, and the wives and daughters of his prisoners, but Sansa was something special. His prick stiffened at the thought._ Redeem yourself, and perhaps I'll let you enjoy her_ flashed a thought from King Brandon.

__“The Dragon Queen will finally return to the Seven Kingdoms, to seek vengeance. On no account must she be allowed to head North. That would be fatal to us all. She must be drawn into battle in the South. The royal fleet will ally with the fleets of Tyrosh, Lys and Myr, and we shall put an end to her once and for all. “  
_ _

__“Now Lord Tyrion, remove your belongings, and your whores, from your quarters, return to Casterly Rock, and redeem yourself for your failings. Lord Redwyne”, he turned to the Master of Ships, “inform us of the state of the royal fleet.”_ _

__“Your will, your Grace” was all he could say, as he left the others to continue the meeting. However unfair it all was, he had been given a second chance._ _

* * *

New Ghis claimed the heritage of Ghis herself, and that meant of the great founding city of the Ghiscari Empire. The Harpy was everywhere, Graces and secret temples to secret Goddesses. They had memories and pride of a time before, but in that time, the Harpy held symbols other than manacles. The modern Ghiscari practised only a mockery of old Ghiscari culture in some ways; in others, it was true enough.

The modern Ghiscari remembered, too, being ruled by Valyria. Now they had, in some sense, been conquered by Valyria again. It helped fuel their deep resentment of Daenerys, both in her first conquest, and in this second. While the glories of the old Ghiscari Empire were long ago, the revolt against the colonial ruling elite of Valyria, in the wake of the Doom, remained a more sure source of pride.

Now, all the cities which contained this ethnos—the new Ghiscari, the mixed descendants of the old, with Valyrians and slaves—were united under one ruler. Meereen, Yunkai, Astapor, New Ghis. Four great cities, no longer warlike city-states, squabbling with each other and keeping slaves, but the cities of one great free nation. To rule them, and to rule them well, Daenerys needed to present herself not as the conqueror, not as the Valyrian, but as the Empress of the Ghiscari.

They spoke the same language, and by now, after long experience with Missandei and Grey Worm, she could switch comfortably into their Low Valyrian, and use all the remnant words of old Ghiscari which still existed. In the time since the end of the siege, she had therefore had her advisors and attendants, prepare everything of the traditions and customs of the land, for her coronation before the people—not as a Queen, as in Westeros, and not as a ruling foreign Archona.

As the Empress of Ghis.

It was a complicated matter. Traditionally, it would be important for her to be seen worshipping the ancient Gods, but this, of course, was unacceptable in the light of the life that she owed to Rh’llor, and the fact that among the slaves, the faith of Rh’llor had spread fast and far. However, some concessions were, at length, allowed. The Temple of the Graces, and the processional ways to the Assembly of the City, had been prepared for the occasion. Daenerys had insisted that no great wealth be spent on the ceremony, as the finances of her realms were precarious, and would remain so for the forseeable future.

The pageantry was provided by the presence of the troops, by the ceremonies of the priestesses, and by the ritual, established in ancient tradition. Its grandeur would come from the customs which infused their culture, rather than an elaborate waste of wealth—though to the freed slaves, the festivities planned would still qualify as elaborate, by any measure. They deserved a bacchanalia to celebrate their liberation.

The ceremonials began in the temple of the Graces. Azkaliza, the Harpy Queen, the symbol of all that was Ghiscari, the Sovereignty Goddess of the Old Empire. Daenerys began the procession, shrouded into simple and plain homespun robes, wearing a veil and cloak. She would not go to worship Azkaliza, but nonetheless, the universe symbol of the Harpy was not demolished, and the companies of troops and courtiers, in the finest dress and armour, presented themselves before the great statue within the temple. Rather than an offering, Daenerys turned to face her loyalists, and in front of the statue, was dressed in the customary old royal coronation robes, heavy in purple dye, brocaded tesseracting designs, fringed with harpies in the skirt which hung low; sandals with woven strands of gold in the fabric straps, and her face richly set with makeup and heavy kohl—so much that she consented not to wear her mask, for, having been prepared for this ceremony, it was impossible to see her skin, anyway.

Thus attired, she stood before the statue of the Harpy. “It is on this day, and henceforth, Loyals, that I beseech thee, and command thee, to uphold the honour of the Free Ghiscari People, and to observe in faithfulness the laws and customs of the Ghiscari Empire, acknowledging it to forever by the Land of the Harpy.” She who had once thought, despairingly, she could never be a Harpy, learned to think of the matter differently and declared: “Henceforth I shall visit the wrath of the Harpy upon the enemies of all Ghis.” She used her personal pronoun, and not the elevated address of an Empress—for as yet she was not crowned.

Then, she descended delicately to the palanquin, and rose up, on cushions of red silk from Leng, fringed with gold, and it was borne up on the backs of eight former masters, who had been offered to be spared, if they had assented to bear the palanquin, while their former slaves were the guests of honour at the festivities. Some men would always choose humiliation over death, and so they walked chained, where once they would have chained men to carry them.

But they would experience for a day what they had inflicted upon men for their entire lives.

Through the streets, the throngs surged, while the soldiers who guarded Daenerys, also had the task of throwing sweets and coins to the commoners, the freed slaves around them. In the procession, all walked except for Yara, who as a crowned Queen, was allowed to ride, and also called Daenerys name, with a particular pride and pleasure, ahead of her: “Hail, Hail, Daenerys Targaryen, the Stormborn… Queen of Volantis, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the _Breaker of Chains,_ the _Unburnt,_ She Who They Want to Kill, and they can’t kill her!” At the last line, such a roar erupted as it seemed to shake the city itself. 

Trumpets peeled, and music played, light and cheery, on a day of celebration and happiness.  Dancing maidens participated in the procession along the route. 

Arriving at the assembly, the bells began to peal, and Daenerys was brought up to the steps; there, she dismounted from the palanquin, trodding across the back of another condemned man. Then she faced all nine. “On this day of joy and restoration for the Ghiscari Nation, I grant you all your liberty,” she declared. At this, the crowd erupted into cheers, assisted by people carefully placed to begin cheering—the pardoning of the slavers, even carefully selected ones with the best cases for it, could still be somewhat controversial, but it had been agreed to by the advisors that the advantage of a pardon, after so many executions, outweighed the disadvantages, in showing some measure of Her Grace’s mercy even for the worst offenders. 

With this, the procession then entered the great hall. Here,  a selection of priests and priestesses, nobles, and soldiers had been seated—but they were all dwarfed by the assembly of the Commons. Here, by a special lottery, thousands of Commoners, outnumbering all the others, and by Daenerys’ special insistence, had been presented. The poor, and the freedmen of the city, were thus in attendance, and indeed, even some of their number from Astapor, from Yunkai, and from Meereen had been conveyed by the fleet, and provided with food, for this occasion. 

She would not, after all, rule only New Ghis,  but all the Ghiscari. 

Here, at the entrance, Daenerys was given a bejeweled cloak, which gleamed in patterns of many-coloured jewels in the reflected and concentrated light of the sun. It rendered her into a point of light, as she made her procession. Her smile toward the children of the Commoners was her one characteristic expression of humanity in the great and gleaming procession, with servants promptly bringing gifts to them. 

Then she reached the golden throne, and turned. Now, Skahaz led a group of magnates. All Shavepates. “Your Grace, we come to you in sorrow—our land has long been riven with factionalism, struck with disunity. The Harpy does not strive as one, but has been plagued with the evils of divided government, and our people separated into many nations, and into classes, where the evil men of all cities could possess slaves, and impoverish the land. Farms were abandoned, and tillage ceased, until great clouds of dust crossed the northern cities. Brother warred against brother. Plagues crossed through the land, brought by the formers come to shamefully buy our people into slavery. Thus has the absence of the crown brought ruination to our people and despoiled our land. Speak to us, we beg you, and tell us what is your lineage, and what you shall do to end these shameful sufferings.”

Daenerys responded in the ritual way: “I am Daenerys Queen of Meereen, who restored the Liberty and pride of the people of Meereen. I gained Meereen by conquest, because the Lord favoured my liberation of the people. I have brought freedom to Meereen, to Yunkai, to Astapor, and to New Ghis. My line is three hundred and ten years royal, through fifteen generations, and noble in ten thousand years of lineage. In this, the Lord granted us to rule certain lands, and we protected them from foreign enemies, even at the cost of our own lives. To Ghis I promise liberty, and I shall open trade to all of the western lands, and restore the prosperity of the common people. Dams and weirs will be built on the rivers, and land will be irrigated. Dusty lands shall grow grass for pasture, and abandoned plots along the rivers shall grow rich with wheat, and be shaded by oranges. I will strive before any other measure, to fill the granaries, that the people will not suffer hunger.  I shall act in responsibility and piety, as the Defender of the Faith of the Lord of Light, and the Ghiscari People. I shall dispense justice fairly, to both Lord and Commoner. ” 

S he paused, then, and faced them all. “I shall have an oath of allegiance from thee all, both Lord and Commoner, for you are all my subjects, and the loyalty of the Commons matters to my heart as much as the loyalty of the Lords.” 

The assembled recited the oath. That the commoners may have not gotten the archaic words, mostly in old Ghiscari, completely right, was beyond the point. The oath, said in mass, represented the allegiance of the people and the nation to Daenerys. With Kinvara representing the priestly class, four representatives, one from each of the Estates, now approached Daenerys and made homage. Then, Kinvara rose, and escorted Daenerys to her throne, and helped her down upon it. “The Lord seats you, with His gracious power, gifting upon you sovereignty as he has gifted upon you life.”

Then, the commoner among them presented the solid gold crown with its finely etched designs of, and Kinvara took it and raised it above them all. “The Lord of Light hath given blessings to you all! As a demonstration of the faith of the people, He hath sent to you Azor Ahai to be your Empress, the Queen of Kings! Descend, O Lord, in all Thy power, and bless in this crown, the reunification of the Ghiscari Empire, that you have seen fit to reunify, as a Free Nation, under Your chosen Prince! Grant her under this crown, firmness of mind and character, that she may always rule Thy people justly!”

With this, Kinvara bowed her head toward Daenerys, and then lowed the crown down upon her brow. “In the names of all before, who have ruled justly over the Ghiscari, I bless you as the Empress, Your Majesty.” She then kissed Daenerys’ cheeks, in joy at the occasion. At that moment, the Lords led the estates in the declaration and acclamation of the Empress: “Long Live the Queen of Kings! Your  E xalted  M ajesty is the worthy sign of noble kings, deserving royalty and possessing  all God-given Fortune as comes from Heaven unto to the legitimate sovereign of Ghis! God has chosen thee, and we are all thy  subjects of our free will!”

Daenerys looked over the assembled, as the first Imperial sovereign of Ghis in thousands of years, yet strong was the memory of this land, and the idea still electrifying. “We Thank Thee All,” she declared, now adopting the majesty of the Royal We. “We are most pleased with the loyalty of all the Estates, and proclaim in thanks for your freely-given obeisance, three days of general festivities, celebration and thanksgiving throughout the city, at the expense of the Crown. Let us celebrate in the Name of Rh’llor, a glorious new age for the Ghiscari Empire!” 

But at the same time, the customary letters went out, proclaiming Daenerys’ accession—and commanding the oaths of allegiance of the cities of Qarth and the slaveholding cities of the south of western Essos. To Braavos and Pentos, only kind words of friendship. 

To Westeros—a most ominous silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Vargo Hoat, "The Goat", did not appear in the show, but in the books, he led an especially revolting band of sellswords, called the Bloody Mummers, the books' equivalent of the Dirlewanger SS Brigade. He liked chopping off peoples' hands and feet, including the hand of Ser Jaime. Tywin punished him by sending Ser Gregor Clegane to apprehend him. Ser Gregor dismembered him alive, feeding parts of his body to other prisoners, and Hoat himself. In this tale, we had him survive, to be appointed Master of Laws.
> 
> 2\. For the purpose of this story, reports of the death of the Blackfish were exaggerated. No doubt he is unhappy with the behaviour of his nephew and niece, but they are still his family.
> 
> 3\. Tyrion really does have a mind like a cess pit, though he would not be aware of the full extent of the torture Ramsay subjected Sansa to. He certainly knows she was forced to do things she found degrading, and that thought excites him.
> 
> 4\. Daenerys' coronation resembles that of the Shah an Shah of Persia, in Sassanid times. All four classes of society, nobles, priests, warriors, and workers were represented at the coronation, and played a part in the ceremony. The inclusion of workers' representatives made it clear that the Shah was to govern on behalf of all.
> 
> 5\. Chapter 15 is a bit shorter than usual, as the inclusion of the intended third scene would have made it very long, and that will be the basis of the next chapter.


	16. In the Furthest North

In the furthest North, the bountiful summer after the end of the world had continued. The settlement in the Valley of the Thenns had brought in its first harvest. More would be needed to build up the stocks required to survive another hard winter, but the auguries suggested that they would manage six more harvests before the next winter, and that was more than adequate for a stock. 

With the children and adults alike feasting on fresh food and the rest of the food being dried and put away in the granaries, the hunting for game went on as ever. More game was coming back into the land, too, as it migrated north with increasing confidence. 

After his experience on the glacier, the men of the community had agreed that they should not hunt on the peak again, calling it an ill place, though Jon felt that few really believed the whole story of what had come to pass there. He sometimes had nightmares of it, with headaches to accompany them. But he persevered, and travelled south, now, to hunt. 

It was there that he encountered her again. Val. With her handmaidens, travelling through the forest in confidence—none of the wildlings would harm a seior, she had no need of an escort. Honour, and the division between what was forbidden and what was permitted, was all that was required. 

He was impressed that they were so far north, but supposed that as the Free Folk wandered back into the regions where snow had at last melted, to hunt and forage and in rare cases put down crops, that it would have been natural for someone as Val to travel with them. And the Free Folk were few, after the winter and the war. 

He considered for a moment reaching out to her, and telling her what had happened within the ice caves of the glacier. It seemed important. She might well wish for the information, might be able to explain to him what had happened. Perhaps she even already knew. 

Of course, she had also commanded him to leave. The refugees from the North did not treat him as an outlaw and kinslayer—they were desperate people, who had fled being sold into slavery, and so they didn’t question the fact that a good swordsman and hunter was on their side, with a tame or at least controllable Direwolf to help guard their fields and village at night. He had been accepted… And the Free Folk would never accept him again. Just give him a quick spear-thrust, as a kinslayer. 

Best to just leave it be. It had been months, the glacier had remained silent. Nothing had woken up. Nothing had threatened the community. He ought let Val be. Jon was going to turn away and fall back from the group when he heard Ghost growl softly, and whirled around. 

Another maid stood there, a spearwife. Young, sharp, dark of hair and eyes, bow nocked. But, Ghost had her attention, not Jon. He wondered almost if he should be insulted by that, as much as he felt a stab of pain, remembering Ygritte. Once, he thought he could be happy. 

“Jon Snow,” Val’s voice sounded from behind him. It was obvious they were all together. “You have done well for yourself.” 

“Have your maid put down her bow.” 

“Alys!” Val called. “He won’t fight, and thus, nor will his wolf.” 

“Farseer,” she acknowledged, and released the tension. 

Jon was relieved. It appeared the choice had been made for him, after all. He turned toward Val, with a few quick paces. “There’s something I must discuss with you, Val.” 

“Then why were you trying to leave?” She asked with a wryly bemused smile. 

Took me in one. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to talk.” 

“I want very much to talk. I could tell that my handywork was so well battered. I could tell … things.” 

“What kind of things can you tell?” 

Val rolled her eyes. “Do you truly know nothing, Jon Snow? The myths and legends beyond the wall are truer than anyone raised south of it could know. To say we defeated even half of that ancient darkness, at Winterfell, would be to speak boastful lies.” 

“It was a power more horrible than anything I have known before,” Jon confessed after a moment. 

She nodded tightly, as if she already knew. Now, they walked together toward the fire Val’s handmaids had begun to set, unconcerned with the confrontation and content in the outcome. Of course, they knew that nobody would dare harm the Farseer, and they served her voluntarily, for the respect that serving her accrued to them. Such was the nature of the Free Folk. 

At her camp, he was offered food as a guest, but directed to sit before a small ash tree; and she listened with rapt attention, while the evening came on, to Jon’s tale of the approach to the cave. The perfect way the ice caves and the rock caves had lined up, the grotto, the rock and rubble. The approach—the oily, black stone. The altar. 

The Night’s Queen. 

The Standing Stone, unlike any other, and the horrifying power that had descended from it. He shivered, and shuddered, to remember these memories—he wanted nothing more than to forget them forever, just like his memory of plunging the blade into Daenerys’ chest. But he forced himself to endure the agony of remembering, so different between each memory and yet so similar, and explained to Val precisely what he had felt, what he had done, the way only Ghost at his side had steadied him, the way he had barely remembered his sword—the way this experience, which though horrifying seemed to last only minutes, had in fact lasted for hours. 

When he finished, she rose, and stepped to his side. From the words he had spoken and from her own expression, the matter was one of the utmost seriousness. She took a small piece of flint, and struck her own hand, and then Jon’s forehead. He did not flinch. 

She pressed the hand to him, while her handmaids approached, wordlessly understanding the intent, to scatter pottage as a small offering at the ash tree. 

For a moment, she could feel him, he could feel her. What power does ash have? If he can see me – Is my own brother of the Gods? 

He is a Power, but one of many. The others are senescent, but may still be reached. And, they created all of nature. I do not need a Weirwood to worship. Ash, for Sun and Fire and Air, is better still in this hour, for I need another Power to call. You have seen something no man has before, Jon Snow—at least, no man who left a Man. 

Then, she pulled back, and the lack of the presence left him stiff and tense, as she returned to the fire, and took her stew. Even a guest could be served second, at the privilege of a Farseer. 

“You saw the Night’s Queen, as in legend.” 

“I did,” Jon agreed. He knew that much. “I don’t know what the power beyond was, though.” 

“Some dark Power indeed,” Val answered, softly. “In your memories, I could feel it. It felt as the distant touch of your brother feels, in some measure.” 

Jon shuddered. “Do you think that it possesses him?” 

“What other wickedness could?” She countered, plainly. “Surely that is the measure of what we face.” 

“Then why didn’t we face the Night’s Queen? If she sleeps there at the pleasure of this power?” 

“Well, we clearly don’t understand all of what has transpired. Prophecy, myth, legend. All the clues are there for you to understand, but no mortal ever has the wisdom and knowledge to put them all together rightly. It is a struggle for all of your life to make enough sense of what you see to have it be useful. In this case, I’d remind you that the old stories are clear—the Night’s King took the Night’s Queen as his bride against her will.” 

“That sounds like something a Dornishwoman would concern herself with…” He trailed off, remembering Sansa’s frozen visage, about Ramsay, and regretting the mild jape, which amused no-one. “Well. Perhaps this power is the true monster.” 

“Perhaps this power is the true monster,” Val agreed. “Would you take me close enough, that I could go? The other cave, the rock cave, the one at the perpendicular. You described it as a place of power. You were not harmed until you entered the caves of ice. There is a measure of risk, but if this monster would threaten my people again, I would know it. We will not enter the cave of ice—we must never enter the cave of us… But from the place of power…” 

It might just be a measure of redemption. He might just be able to keep the new settlers of the Thenn, the Free Folk too, safe from whatever this power was. He nodded. “I will do it.” 

  


\------------------------------------- 

  


Two days hence, they returned to the valley of the Thenns, Jon leading Val’s party. The Northerners were always suspicious of Free Folk, but the Free Folk and the Northerners worshipped the same Gods. Val represented their power, and so she was grudgingly welcomed. Arriving in the central halls, she remarked: “You will need to learn, ultimately, that you are Free Folk now, even if you don’t want to be. Though something of the nature of the Men of this valley remains, I suppose, since, they too obeyed more authority than most of us beyond your wall.” 

“It’s the nature in which we were raised,” Jon answered defensively. He had tried to escape it, but the Free Folk did not want him, and he had accepted he would never be one of them, or indeed, one of anyone at all. 

Roger Glover, who was acknowledged at least as their chief, even if he had less power than a Lord, greeted them, and offered bread and salt, which Val took, acknowledging the custom. She treated it like any visit to a community, even if she had an ulterior motive behind it, she still very much believed it was appropriate to offer her customs. So far they did not have any seiora of their own within the valley. So she scryed fortunes for them and spoke advice to the children, and told a few tales. 

In the evening, Glover invited Jon and Val to the house in which he lived. It was one of the finest in the settlement, close to the rebuilt squat wooden tower which, along with a rude wooden pallisade, were their only defences. However, he did not claim it as a Lord’s keep. Not yet, anyway. Jon had yet to decide if it was on account of Glover being broken by his experiences, or that he was, in fact, somewhat wiser than he had been given credit for, and would take his time, and gain popularity and approval for any move to assert his authority. 

This far north it was cool even in a summer, when the sun went down, but not too cool. The coals off the cooking fires were sufficient for warmth, but with little else in the way of light—they had very little tallow, only what they hunted—the fire was kept up, and it was pleasant for all, even a little too warm. Not a bad night, and one his father would have appreciated. 

They spent some time to expand pleasantries, sure. But the Free Folk did not have time for many, and the better for all of them. “There is a reason you came, certainly?” 

“Jon and I will go to the glacier.” 

Glover frowned. “It seems an ill place, from what he saw there. We had all agreed in the settlement that it was henceforth to be off-limits.” At least the war against the Night’s King had convinced them all that it was no lie, no fantasy, no simple tale for children, that there were dark powers in the North, that the Longest Night was in fact a real event which had really threatened the world so very long ago. 

“And that was wise of you, but my power exists for a reason. And, as Jon said, there was a place of power there which was identified with the Old Gods, on the solar perpendicular to the ice cave. I will not, nor should anyone, ever, enter the ice cave. But I wish to go to this place of power, to our Gods. I will seek them out there, and see if I may make offerings there, and can thus help keep quiet the power which slumbers there, and therefore protect your land, and indeed, all the Free Folk. Such is my calling. And Jon will go with me, because he has debts to pay.” 

Glover thought for a moment at all that was put before him. Finally, he asked the question which he could not resist, because it seemed so plain. “Why did you even come, to speak of this before me, and risk being told no, when with Jon Snow, you might have passed around our hunters and watchmen, and carried on to the mountain yourself?” 

“I wish to be responsible,” Val replied. “I should leave my handmaids and attendants with you—it must be just Jon and I who go, with his Ghost. I would not risk the lives of any other people in this endeavour. There is real risk, to be sure, but I have seen in my dreams that it is important to go, and so I must. But I ask you to give shelter to my handmaids, until I return or, if I do not return, until they elect to depart, to find their own ways among us Free Folk.” 

Glover looked to Jon. “You are prepared for all hazards?” 

Jon frowned, having been sitting and listening quietly, following along to the others. “What do you mean?” 

“I’ll be plain with you – if you return with the Farseer here, we will welcome you back. But if you return alone, we will kill you, or drive you out, because of the beast which sleeps there. If you return alone, I will not even permit a chance for you to suborn a single man among us. I will not risk it, even if it means I must run a sword through an innocent man. That power is too ill and evil for me to take any other course. So, I counsel you, you must come back with Val, or not all.” 

Jon looked to Val, who nodded once. “It is a wise precaution, for the sake of those here. We all know the story of how the Night’s King came to be. You would not want that for yourself. There is nothing but sound common sense in his words.” 

“Then I’ll make myself ready for it,” Jon answered. He had to do something, for the sake of the guilt that burned within. 

“The day after tomorrow, then,” Glover declared, and that was that, for the night was growing long, and it was best to let the fires be banked, and take to bed. 

  


\----------------------------------------------------------------- 

  


In summer, the temperature in the Vale of the Thenns was lovely and pleasant, just the right natural summer temperature for one to enjoy being outside as long as one pleased. The land had dried enough that the hordes of gnats they had trudged through coming north had dissipated. As they crossed the land toward the mountain, and up the face, the temperatures rapidly began to cool. They had dressed accordingly, and started early, so that they would not sweat themselves before the cold; that meant Jon never really got to feel the warmth that day. 

Val maintained her reserve with Jon. She clearly had not changed her feelings about his conduct, she was just collaborating with him because her visions had guided her to do it. They ate quietly—what more was there to do?--pemmican and mead from the settlement, provided in a flagon. By the time they settled down for the night, though, with Ghost curled close to them around a small fire, they had reached an elevation that was cold and chill, indeed, and where the water ran clear enough that both Jon and Val cheerfully drank of it. 

They could have made the glacier in one day. Both of them had agreed, however, that they wished to visit only in the best daylight they could, so they camped for the night, and started out when the faintest wisps of grey were just beginning to show in the distant western sky above the mountains. That way, they would arrive comfortably before Noontime, so that the waxing of the sun would give power to light. Along the way, Val selected a branch of an Ash, and quickly chopped and set it into a new walking stick. “I want wood that was watered by the glacier,” she explained; and Jon had figured out, from before, that she chosen Ash for its solar aspect. 

They carried on, the air noticeably thinner here as they approached the glacier. Jon refused to fear, but he still felt ill at seeing the glacier again as it loomed into sight, the crags and jagged edges as it met the rock at its end taking on an ominous character, now that he knew so well that they represented the entrances to the ice caves which carried such ill portents. 

To approach the rock cave required passing the ice cave. They both saw it, and halted with a similar thought. “We’ll make a traverse, lower down in the rocks,” Val suggested, gesturing to a faint path along the tumble of rocks which marked the end of the glacier. 

Jon nodded. “Aye. I don’t want to be able to even look into it.” He lead them across the scree, stumbling and scrambling, until they found a diagonal path to climb up the slope beyond the rock cave. There, they had to double back, and down again, in a switchback, to gain the entrance. 

Val drew a small dagger of flint, and held it firmly in her hand, as she scrambled up before the entrance, Jon hard-fast her left side with Ghost lurking close. He took an oiled torch and lit it. Together, they stepped forward. 

The cave went back a good hundred feet. At the end was a grotto of wooden images of Gods, incomparably ancient. They were painted in ochre. An air of power was around them, clean, but also close—the dense feeling of the humid air, but cold. Val dropped to her knees before the idols, kissed the damp earth of the cave, where bones from ancient sacrifices, animals long killed, mouldered into rich Earth. Jon knelt and raised his torch high. 

His eyes jerked in surprise, even if he had, mostly, expected it, when Val opened her own wrist with the blade, and began to chant in a low, sharp voice. He could feel the air grow all the more dense—murky, muddy, and objects seemed to become fuzzy and indiscrete. 

Then Val’s eyes flashed open—and they were black. Jon had seen enough by this point that he overcame the shudder that ran through his body, kept the torch high, though his free hand settled ready on the hilt of his sword. The Farseer was possessed, there could be no doubt of it. 

“I remember your mind,” her voice, in the flickering firelight of the cave, seemed to take on a measure of an alien sound, like the noise of an ice-fall grating over rocks. “Bold fire, bold steel, straight to the heart of the beast.” 

“Are you the beast?” He imagined that monstrous power stirring, growing strong enough to speak. But it did not feel as that. It did not feel like the yawning vastness of the stars. The voice he spoke to, even in that grating ice-fall, was something more immediate and more recognisable. He did not think the inky blackness was awake behind him. 

Perhaps something else was. 

“Never! Down unto the incomparable ages, I have never relented to its will!” Like ice falling into the sea, the cold came through Val’s voice. “Fire-son, you do not know the power to act, but come here – lend your blood.” 

“Why would you have it?” 

“It is not a matter for Ice only to defeat this beast. Give me fire. The seior is mine until I awake, so best hasten it.” 

Fire and Ice. He rose, stepped forward, and knelt again, right at Val’s side. There, he slipped his sword from the sheath, just a few inches, and sliced his hand. The time when he would have flinched at such a thing had long before vanished, and he understood it was his only sure chance to succour Val, in the grip of this voice. 

His pressed his hand to the old altar, and there was a crack from the glacier, and a keening scream which echoed through the vale outside the cave. It sank into his bones with a shiver of uncertainty, he had no idea what it meant, or what it portended, or if he should be ready for an attack, as futile as that might be. 

Val toppled down to the mouldering soil of the cave, suddenly breathing hard, as if she hadn’t been breathing at all, as if she had been in the middle of a raw panic, whereas an instant, a heartbeat before, she had been perfectly cool and calm and composed—now, nothing of the sort, a desperation unleashed within her. She looked up now with her eyes restored, shuddering for breath, trying to form words. 

Finally, she did. “She’s awake.” 

Jon felt his heart seize at him. “Who?” 

Gasping for air, Val stared with an expression somewhere between frustration and amusement. She dragged in enough to speak again, in halting breaths. “The Night’s Queen.” 

Jon very slowly forced himself to rise, grabbing Ghost’s fur for reassurance and strength before standing straight, and then leaning down to help Val to her feet. It seemed to take too long, as they turned back toward the mouth of the cave. 

It did take too long. As they reached the light, there she stood. Her body like living ice, from the white hair cascading down, moving, existing like hair, to the way her skin rippled and moved. She spoke, and it was clear that only minutes before, she had possessed Val. “So now I finally have a man of power before me, untouched by the darkness between the stars. But you are inadequate.” 

“Inadequate?” Jon stared. 

Val nodded. “The Night’s King was the first she summoned.” 

“The Darkness requires souls,” the Night’s Queen stated plainly. Jon realised, finally realised, that in this moment, as unfathomable as it was… He was not talking to the Darkness. Before, he had not been experiencing the power of a slumbering Night’s Queen. 

He had been experiencing something else, something unfathomable in the darkness of space, something hungry for entire worlds. “What, then, did I face?” 

“The power was that which is beyond this world… It was said, in the First days, that fire and ice would defeat it.” She laughed, her laughter like the snapping and rumbling of the glacier. “I am ice, though I am what little is left of it. My people lived in these lands of eternal snow beyond this place. The darkness came to us first, and whispered promises – that there should be sacrifices to it, for power, for survival, or else it would swallow the whole world. But, in fact, it can only swallow the whole world if it is given a place from whence to do so. That rock is the place. That rock is the place of power. When we did not listen, it turned to the forest-people. They listened. They made a deal of power with it, for the sake of defeating your race. It made us subservient, it twisted us and mingled us with their magic, it brought the seasons to heel, and brought down endless snows upon the south, to allow our ancestors to advance, for though I am long lived, I do not remember those days. I was once a priestess of my people, and we fought it, but it overcame us, and ensnared our people as its slaves.” 

“So I tried to true the prophecy, and brought a man to me, to help me defeat it—a creature of fire, of heat, of warmth. But he did not have enough fire, enough heat, enough warmth. He was inadequate. He was tempted. He turned from me to the service of the beast, and in the process was turned into something—halfway between me, and it. My people waned into nothing, and on his first defeat, he put me to sleep to bind the gate, and sacrificed the wildlings to the Darkness, to wait for the hour when again he was strong enough to destroy the lands to the south. The portal will open, soon, if another does not bring it sacrifices. The war quieted it, but only for a while.” 

“Jon is the Blood of the Dragon. Is that what you sought? The true fire you need?” Val asked, the Night Queen’s speech rendering the situation sharp and clear in her mind. 

“It is – but he is vulnerable, weak to the power. He has a flame, but I fear it threatened,” the Night’s Queen answered dismissively. “Where is the magic of fire?” 

Jon grimaced at the way he was so quickly dismissed; but it was true, he knew nothing of magic. 

“The magic of old Valyria was lost forever by the Dragons in the south,” Val murmured, “though even here we know there were once wonders across the sea.” 

A baleful grimace crossed the ice-woman’s face. “I do not think, I refuse to believe, that all hope is lost, especially after you have managed to awaken me. Might not the magic linger somewhere?” 

“In the cities of Mantarys or other places in the ruins of Valyria,” Jon said, “they speak of sorcerers of the ancient ways. I heard it as tales, but the magic of fire is certainly in the hands of those like the Red Priests. And the magic of Valyria—I have heard of blood mages and storm-singers, though I thought it all old myths, but here you stand before me. What would you have me go?” 

“Find one strong in them, and bring them to me. I will not say more, lest you fall to its power.” She turned away, and left in a rush. 

“WAIT!” Jon called, to no avail. 

Val stared after the departing figure and both were silent for a while, breathing hard. “You heard her. She doesn’t trust you. And, I don’t trust her, though I don’t believe she is controlled by the Darkness, because why, then, leave us alive? The story of Ice and Fire is long woven into myth and legend, and perhaps there is something for it. It seems we must go, and go fast, for this battle that you fought is not done, Jon Snow, and it is only in your heritage as a Targaryen that you may bring it to a final ending. You must seek out the woman you slew. Your father’s sister. She has been brought back for a reason. ” 

Jon shuddered, his soul raw with agony. It seemed his duty, humanity, and the very survival of all he ever cared about, in fact depended on the very heritage he had denied, and denied viscerally in blood, with a dagger’s stroke. 

“And, if I find her, won’t she kill me in turn?”

“If she does, that is no more than you merit. But, first you must alert her to this peril. “

“And if I fail…..?”

He may yet have managed to destroy the world, when he thought he was saving his own family. 


	17. Prudence and Exaltation

**Prudence & Exaltation **

Brynden Tully was not a man who was easily frightened. He’d survived the siege of Riverrun by Jaime Lannister, then dived into the Trident as the castle fell. He’d almost drowned, but finally made his way to the bank. Then for weeks, he had lived rough in the woods that fringed the river, evading the patrols of the Lannisters and Freys. He’d got word of the massacre at the Twins, something which remained mysterious to this day. Supposedly, a young woman claiming to be Arya Stark had poisoned every male member of House Frey. When he reached the Twins, he found the Tully banner flying from the battlements. Roslyn Frey had released his nephew Edmure from the dungeons, and the surviving women had submitted to his authority. From that stronghold, the pair had taken the war to the remaining Lannisters in the Riverlands; eventually, they surrendered, following the fall of Kings Landing and the deaths of Cersei and Ser Jaime.

Edmure had made his own bid for kingship at the Dragonpit, only for his niece, Sansa Stark, to ridicule him in front of the rest, destroying his chances. Well, Edmure was not the material of which kings were made, but by all accounts, Sansa was turning out a good deal worse. He was only surprised her regime had lasted as long as it had. As for his other nephew, Brandon, well, he was one of the few people that could make Cersei look good by comparison. He’d intended to live out his days quietly at Riverrun, until quite out of the blue, Brandon had summoned him to Kings Landing, and explained that he needed him to pacify Dorne. However much he disapproved of his nephew’s methods of ruling, family was still family, and at least he was being asked to heal wounds, rather than create them.

Arriving at Sunspear, he had ordered that small, outlying garrisons be withdrawn into the main towns and strongholds. That meant surrendering tracts of countryside to the rebels, but at least it stemmed the ongoing losses. The King had informed him that a far greater danger approached, namely the Dragon Queen. He expected her to land in Dorne, if she were not defeated at sea. He needed the army intact if necessary. It also made it imperative for him to seek peace with the rebels. He’d managed to inflict a severe defeat on them, when they grew overconfident, and tried to retake Starfall. At the same time, he had made a point of treating his captives honourably; he’d also made a point of hanging and flogging soldiers who carried out atrocities on the local population, starting with Urswyck and working his way down. And, then he’d put out feelers to the rebels, sounding out their terms for bringing the fighting to an end.

So, here he was, being led blindfold into the desert, on horseback, by partisans, who had agreed to treat with him, upon condition that he met them alone, with his eyes covered. This was quite possibly, the most stupid decision of his life. He knew very well that he risked a dreadful death at their hands, but it was a gamble he had to take. No, he was not easily frightened, but he couldn’t help being apprehensive right now. He had met them several miles outside Starfall, a group of horsemen. He guessed that he must have ridden now for about three hours. At last, one of them called a halt. “Time to dismount, Lord Brynden” said the man who had introduced himself as their leader. They helped him down from his horse. Then, one took him by the arm, and led him on foot. A few minutes later, he sensed he had entered a courtyard, before descending a flight of steps. His blindfold was removed, and he blinked, as his eyes adjusted to the scene before him.

He was in a cellar. Several men and women sat facing him. A chair had been set out for him, and one dark, bearded man gestured to him to sit. He did so.

“Lord Brynden, we have never met before. I am Mors Martell, Prince of Dorne” he began. “You don’t need to know the names of my colleagues,.” he gestured toward the others. “The Imp was a monster. You are certainly a better than man than he is, but good or bad, invaders are not welcome in Dorne. Your master, King Brandon, has launched an unprovoked attack on my lands, murdered my people, and imprisoned friends of mine, both here and in Kings Landing. Tell me why you consider he deserves our loyalty.”

“The Imp is a fool and a criminal. The King has dismissed him, and appointed me in his place,” he replied. “You are no doubt aware that I have executed Urswyck, and other criminals in the ranks of my army.” The Prince nodded. “If there are others in my ranks who have committed crimes against your people, then give me their names, and details of their offence, and I shall ensure that justice is carried out.”

“The invasion itself was a crime” remarked a striking young woman with brown hair,

“I disagree. However, I am authorised to make concessions.”

“Name them” said the Prince.

“Firstly, I can grant every one of you and your supporters a full pardon, provided you return to the King’s peace.”

“I think your king should be the one seeking our pardon,” remarked the woman. The Prince raised his hand before saying “Continue.”

“He is your king, not just mine. To continue, full compensation will be offered to the families of those who have suffered unjust killings, or loss of property.”

“Money is not the same thing as justice”, remarked the young woman.

“What of the Imp, and Bronn Stokeworth?” growled one man, built like a bear, most of his face covered with black hair. “Will they be delivered up to us to face justice? I promise you, their dying will be slow and painful.”

“I doubt if the King’s Grace would be persuaded that the pair should be handed over to you for punishment. Justice is a royal prerogative. However, it is very much my view that the pair should be sentenced to death, and publicly beheaded at the Shadow City. Would that satisfy you?”

“And can you promise that King Brandon will agree this?”, asked another.

“I can’t. But, I can strongly urge him to do so. If I secured his agreement, would you undertake to cease your revolt?”

“My colleagues and I will talk this over. Give us some time. “ A pair of guards came over, and led him out of the room, into an antechamber. It must have been over an hour before he was brought back.

“We have made our decision” said Prince Mors. We will have peace upon one condition,” (Brynden’s heart soared briefly) but then “Give to us the liver of King Brandon Stark. Those are the only terms we can offer you, Lord Brynden.”

“So, the war continues.” Prince Mors nodded.

“Some of my colleagues were for staking you out in the desert, and leaving you for the wild beasts. However, my word is iron. I guaranteed your life, prior to this meeting. You will be led back to Starfall, safely, but should we ever meet again, I shall not hesitate to kill you. Leave Dorne, Lord Brynden. I believe you are good at heart, but you are in service to evil men. Sooner or later, Daenerys Targayen will return to the Seven Kingdoms, and she will have no mercy towards the usurpers and those who serve them.”

He thought more about that, as he rode away, blindfolded as before. He had fought alongside his brother, Hoster, when the rebels rose against her father, although he had felt nothing but disgust, when he learned of the murder of Princess Elia and her infant children. His brother had been a ruthless man, thinking nothing of massacring an entire village when its lord defied him. He had a nagging suspicion that Lord Tywin had approached Hoster, to find out how the rebels would react, if he murdered the royal children. After all, the new regime might have exacted punishment for it. Instead, King Robert had gloated over their deaths, and had richly rewarded Tywin. It had been one of the factors that led him to take service with the Arryns; he knew full well that Lord Jon had argued vociferously against the murder of Daenerys and her brother in exile. Still, he doubted that the Targaryen Queen would be in any mood for mercy on her return. He was a rebel against her father, and his relatives had stolen her crown. Dorne was an obvious point for her to invade, and he would have to concentrate the army on the Eastern coast. Word had come that Ghis had fallen to her, and that her fleet was heading West, towards the Narrow Sea. It could only be a matter of time before she struck for the Seven Kingdoms. She had to be drawn into battle in the South of the country, in Dorne. His nephew had impressed that upon him, repeatedly,

At length, they halted again, and one of the men removed his blindfold. As he rode away, he realised all he could do was watch and wait. The wisdom of the ages in four words.

* * *

Prudence can save a nation as surely as valour. The Valyrians were the race of the Dragonlords, and the aristocrats of Lys had heard the stories from the east. The Army of Mantarys, Tolos and Elyria had been defeated despite all efforts. The cities had been taken, and even black-rock was not a defence against the Dragonfire which had created it. The Lyseni nobility was as cruel and callous as all the other slaver-lords of Essos. But they could learn from the mistakes of the past. A fleet of a thousand ships were headed for them. They could not face it on their own.

To defend their city was to die in it. The roadstead of Greater Lys—the main island—was capable of sheltering a great Armada against all serious directions of typical storms. Worse, too, the Army coming from the furthest east—from the revived Ghiscari Empire—was not the only Army available. Under orders, capable men, promoted fast, had organised a new Army in Volantis. They had marched to the west, and put the Lysene colonies on the mainland of the southern coast of the Disputed Lands to siege.

There would be no reinforcement, and no succour, and those armies would cover the coast against any raiders, so that regular convoys of merchants could sortie forth from Volantis, and resupply any fleet besieging the great city of Lys proper. So the General Assembly of the Magisters in Conclave (the representatives of each of the Conclaves for their area of competence) had listened to the Gonfaloniere,  the elected Lord Commander of the Lyseni military, explain:

“ _There are_ _men among you who say-- ‘we have high walls, built by the finest engineers of Old Valyria. We have maintained our walls, with the wealth of our city, since the first day they were built. They are not like the ruins in other cities. Too, even if they are breached, our blocks are of stone, the tenements are ten-stories of masonry, we will fight them block to block. What they are doing, Magisters of the City, is hiding their own fear in their webs of words. They know a dragon will bring it all down, but the more they talk about it, the more they assure themselves it is too strong to suffer that fate. They are wrong.”_

“ _The plain fact is that no city, an immobile, fixed target, may long survive a dragon. Our enemy has shown great patience in_ _the reduction of other cities. If we wait behind our walls, we may call this ‘courage’, and say we defend our city. But I tell you, it is cowardice. It’s easy for us to flatter ourselves that we can preserve the homes of our families, the graves of our fathers, and the wealth of our houses. All will perish before dragonfire.”_

“ _I hear your mutterings, some with fear and some with rage, who wonder if I speak defeatism. But I bring you no defeatism, Magisters. My counsel is this: As it was in the days of old, when we were one of the Three Sisters, when we strove against Daemon-King, the Lord of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, his wife, the Queen Rhaenyra, sent her son and heir against a great fleet, and it cost his life. He fell in battle, burning a fleet, his dragon tangled into the chains of the fleet, wings striking the water as he flew too low to destroy ships. Ships, which may be fitted with six repeating crossbows at their f’c’sle, poop and waist. Ships, which may hide in storms, and move to the point of our choosing. Ships, which may combine with those of our friends, and double, and treble our strength, when they know they are next. The Half-Year Queen had many dragons to her command, and was still undone. Our enemy hath only one.”_

“ _Magisters, I hold letters from the King of Westeros, and the councils of Myr and Tyrosh. They invite us to take our fleet to the Dornish Capes, those rugged fingers of land off the Stepstones, known for their storms and fog, blowing down from the Stormlands to the north through the Narrow Sea. There we may meet with them, and form a fleet greater in number than that of our enemy.”_

“ _Magisters, I appeal to you now, take your families, your wives, your concubines, your sons and daughters.. Your retainers and other picked men of your patronage. Take your most valuable wealth, in gold and silver and gems. We will command every ship in the harbour to obey us and become as a convoy within our fleet of war, and we will embark onto the war-fleet your goods as well… But on the sole condition you must bring your arms, every free citizen of this City. The muster will be called, and it will march aboard. If there are too many men for the masts and the tillers, then we will put off slaves, and let free men row. Yes, let free men row! We will fall back and put our wealth and our families ashore in the Stepstones, and join the muster of our allies at the Dornish Capes._ _There, we will take the enemy at the time and place of our choosing, and when the Whore-Queen’s Dragon falls from the sky, we will reclaim our halls, as the triumph of men who chose courage instead of cowardice, and withdrew to fight the battle of their own design!”_

And so, the slaveowners of Lys had retreated on their ships, with their wives and concubines and children and wealth, and put it ashore, on islands the full mass of their fleet and Army had easily seized, to wait out a battle along the rough northeast coast of Dorne. As a result, Princess Elaena Targaryen, as she now had the right to call herself, faced a restive city, overthrown in dissensions and chaos when the ruling elite… had quite literally packed up ship and fled. Wiser than the Lords of New Ghis, to be sure.  Those that remained were no fools either. They were those who had chosen accommodation with the Empress of Ghis, and Queen of Volantis, and accordingly had immediately freed their slaves before her arrival. 

But this act—the nobles who freed their slaves, and the nobles who fled with the fleet—created a dynamic distinctly different than it had been in the other cities which Daenerys had conquered in her rampage through the East. They meant that she stood on her own feet, Drogon outside the gates, with a vast fleet in the anchorage, looking up at the hill the city was built upon, and trying to figure out how to bring it to peace. Already, the reputed wisdom of the Gonfaloniere that she had heard repeated was bearing fruit. Without any slave-owners present to pit their fury against, the population of the city had turned against each other, and were scarcely welcoming the arrival of the fleet.

The city had fallen without a fight, for many of the lower-class freedmen had quickly begged them to put in an occupying Army—not out of loyalty or any true sentiment, but simply to maintain regular order and avoid looting by the slaves—and thrown open the gates. Now, Elaena stood with a body of troops by the southwest Gate, the Grain Gate, where she had landed with Drogon to meet an advanced guard which had come up from the frigatas which had docked first. The Empress’ ships were debouching men through the wharves.

In her heavy armour, she could barely stray far from Drogon, and being on the ground required being guarded—Drogon was now large enough to carry four archers behind her, and for the assault on Lys, where they were trying to avoid damaging the city, Daenerys had consented to four volunteer Unsullied, who had some talent with the bow they had learned in the past years beyond their normal training, to be trained for the task. She valued Elaena’s security far more than the effectiveness of the archery from Drogon’s back.

The officer they had gone to speak to was a slight man of olive skin and oiled curly hair… _No,_ a woman, which was rare enough but not unheard of, since all social restrictions had been disrupted in the midst of the revolution and conquests; perhaps one in twenty among the officers were fighting women, less among the rank-and-file (and almost equal numbers of eunuchs, who ranged from horribly ugly to an amazing youthful masculinity despite their condition, to more feminine than she was, Elaena couldn’t help but think). Ghiscari, then, and without marks of servitude on her skin, and a wiry strength to her.

“Your Highness,” the Captain saluted.

“What’s your name, Captain?”

“Sezza mo’Khazziq, Your Highness,” she offered. “We’re a half-battalion of the 5th Meereenese Marines.” A daughter of a Shavepate aristocrat family then, taking advantage of the disruption in normal society to choose her own life instead of the one chosen for her. Elaena was immediately sympathetic.

“Since Drogon is here,” Elaena instructed, “Your pickets will have powerful reinforcements if they’re cut off from a mob. I don’t need to burn to drive one back.” She was _learning,_ and that included how the mere immense bulk of a dragon like Drogon could drive back a crowd in the streets. “You’ll hold the most of the city, by spreading out detachments block to block in this quarter.”

“Your Highness, I counsel you; that was as dangerous as bloody hell in Meereen.”

“It was,” Elaena nodded firmly in acknowledgement, armoured helmet tucked under one arm, “but only because it was continued past the point where resistance could begin to organise. Here, we are not so limited. We need to only keep the city under control that way for a few days while the Army is unloaded, then we will have almost as many soldiers here as there are people—more soldiers than there are citizens in the city, in fact, and the slaves are with us.” 

S ezza thought about it for a moment, nodded, and saluted. She turned to begin giving orders to her men, code-switching from the High Valyrian which was spoken by the Empress, behind the Black Walls, and in Mantarys and here in Lys (in a dialect) to the Ghiscari Low Valyrian that was her mother tongue, peppered and laced with quick-fired loan words in a smooth patois. The troops began to move out through the dusty summer streets of a city whitewashed into beauty. 

Elaena stayed at the command post, being helped by some of the Unsullied with her out of some of the more flexible pieces of her armour. Then, she ate a small meal of a mixture of pounded dried meat and berries in the Dothraki style, and hardtack. In the circumstances she didn’t think even the smallest exaction of food from the city was appropriate, until they had firm control. She drank watered wine, and waited for the arrival of the rest of the troops. 

Late in the day, a strong body arrived near the Southwest Gate. The main corps of the Unsullied, led by Grey Worm, with Daenerys riding alongside. Those Unsullied with Elaena and the staff of the command post came to attention. Elaena rose to her feet. “ Your Majesty!”

Daenerys dismounted. “Princess Elaena,” she acknowledged. “We will hold a great assembly of the people in the Hippodrome tomorrow. However, the city is restless; this is not a liberation or a conquest or a victory, but an occupation.”

“It is, Your Majesty,” Elaena agreed. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Always, Princess.”

“We cannot imagine that every criminal has escaped. Let us delay the assembly, if the heralds have not gone out yet,” she continued when Daenerys nodded in the affirmative, “and find all of those who have committed crimes against the freed people of the city—any slaveowners at all. We will make a spectacle of them.”

Daenerys looked to Grey Worm. “Your counsel?” 

“Your Majesty,” he spoke, thoughtfully, “the enemy in retreating have undertaken to make the people forget that they were liberated by the mere approach of our forces. It would remind the people thus.”

“Then, we must do it.”

* * *

Over the next three days, heralds went through the streets, demanding those who had been guilty in the past of slaving crimes. Many of the lower classes of citizens were turned out, because they owned one or two or at most three slaves for work in their households, but the condition of these slaves was much different than the condition of the slaves worked in the great latifunda on the island which fed the city, in the apothecaries of the city which turned out poisons, medicines and herbal concoctions and which refined silver and other arts for half of Essos, and the inordinate numbers of pillow-houses and resorts for the social elite, and the slave-breeding lines. So, in a great ritualised procession, those detained were brought forward and their slaves were given the option of pardoning them or not, and, taking a measure of their wealth, or the business they had once worked in for free, as compensation for their slavery.  Some others were spared because of the intercession of Red Priests, who said they were members of their congregations, and had donated to the cause ameliorating slavery in the city. That was the only other kind of intercession permitted. 

It was then that the punishment fell upon particularly harsh petty owners and upon those overseers of the great estates and factory establishments, who were reviled for their cruelty. Within the Hippodrome, a mass burning was arranged. At the signal from Daenerys, Elaena flew overhead with Drogon, and landed in front of the condemned, that they could see their doom. There, Daenerys joined her on Drogon’s back, and together the two rose, turned, and burned the pyre with a tremendous streak of flame. In fact, it was a mercy; instead of a slow burning to death, the terrible heat and furious intensity of dragonfire quickly combusted all before them, and death was swift, compared to the usual fate of those on the pyre.

Daenerys then returned to the Hippodrome, and  over the guttering of blackened bodies and scraps of wood and the ash of human flesh, announced measures for the distribution of the  property of the estates, and for common ownership by guilds, of the manufacturies. In this way, all of the freedmen would share of the wealth of the city. It was a great celebration, with food and drink wildly distributed, and the whole night turned into one of debauchery and delight for the population, celebrating the promises of the Empress and Queen, and revelling in the execution of a hated class.

Elaena felt no real emotion of it, and that she shared with her adoptive mother. Neither of them felt any sympathy for the slaving class of Lys, here as in Mantarys they shared their blood with slaver and slave alike. This archipelago had been first settled by the people of Valyria, and for all its good and ill alike, it was all of their blood. 

That night, with a short sword at her side as her protection, and a very light and finely wrought suit of Valyrian steel chainmail (Yara had found it in Mantarys and given it to her, saying that it was surely intended to protect an aristocrat from assassination by stabbing while fitting under reasonably modest dress so they did not look paranoid) under her tunic and skirt, with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she went out on the town. Perhaps it was out of the motivation to make sure that she could still feel anything at all. 

Around them the fires of the temples burned bright, and people danced in the street. With the reputation of Lys, the celebrations were quite licentious and raucous, a completely wild, exhaustive declaration of happiness and euphoria at the liberty of the people. The Unsullied were extensively used as guards in an attempt to maintain regular order at the critical points, and the troops were kept under regular order to avoid adding to the general air of festivities, but it was a wild relaxation of social mores; Elaena even saw people fornicating in the street as the wine so freely flowed. 

In the end she settled down at a wine-souk where drink was freely flowing, the women of the city dancing for the soldiers’ coin, but there was a guard outside, and it was more orderly than most. The officers inside were drinking and playing at dice. It was no sack, but instead, a Carnival, in the best sense of the word.  At their head was Ser Qarl “the Maid”, the somewhat infamous Lieutenant of Yara Greyjoy. They knew who she was, but greeted her only as one of their own, and she felt no fear in the midst of the city, having taken her commonsense precautions; her guard of four Unsullied relieved the men outside, too happy to join in the festivities. 

“Here, take that, it’s a sour Dornish red, and they’re almost out, as no shipments have come in more than a year,” Qarl explained as the flagons circled, “but I imagine you have never had one before, so try it while you may;” and soon Elaena had a full goblet. 

“Where is Yara?” Elaena asked as she watched the women dance to the sharp beat of the drum and quick flutes, in varying states of undress, before turning her eyes back to Qarl. She knew exactly how her mentor and tutor would respond to the situation, make herself the life of the party, but Elaena didn’t feel the same inclination.

“With Her Majesty,” he said, sotto-voice to her. “As the Queen-Empress celebrates in private, in whatever way she pleases.”

Probably making love with either Yara or Daario. Elaena didn’t think Daenerys slept with them both at once. Well, maybe tonight; there were no real laws or mores tonight. People would remember those in a few days, when the wine was exhausted and the revelry burned itself out, and that was very much by design. “I know the way she pleases.”

“Do you? I thought our young Captain,” because that was what they called her, when not wishing to bring her status as the Sword or the Heir to anyone’s attention, “knew absolutely nothing at all of love, in fact.”

Between the wine and Qarl’s comment, Elaena flushed fiercely. She _was_ a virgin, of course she was. She had been thirteen when she went into Daenerys’ service, and though years had passed, she was still young.

“You might be interested in someone, though,” he continued idly.

Elaena’s eyes widened. With a smirk, Qarl pointed toward another table, where some locals were gathered,  drinking and rolling dice, and in particular at a youthful, handsome man with long silver-blonde hair . “See that young lad there, with his features so fine of Old Valyria? They say that in the time of Aegon the Fifth,  some bastards were sired by a Prince of the House Targaryen, in exile here, onto the whores of the city; that was ninety some years ago, but because the blood of the dragon is so prized here, the girls became the highest class of courtesans, and bought their children freedom.He is one of the great-grandsons of that line. I know you dragons prefer family.” He wagged his brow, making her blush worse. 

She took another long drink from her goblet, and felt very distinctly like the officers at the table were challenging her. In a real sense, her body was Daenerys’ and not her own, but would the Queen of Slaves much care? She took lovers, herself. 

“Really, even some of the Unsullied have lovers. In two classes, you know, there are the men like Grey Worm who manage their best with a woman, and the ones who know pleasure by being taken like a woman… The Red Priestesses are not even celibate...”

Elaena blushed furiously, and smacked her goblet down. “Another.” 

With a smirk, it was promptly refilled, and grabbing it in hand, Elaena rose to her feet, full of wine and with more in her cup. With a swirl of the shawl around her shoulders like it was a little cape, she daringly wobbled her way over to the other table through the dancing and celebrating throngs. 

Qarl, in his own way, was a gentleman about it; for all he’d baited her into it like a true member of Yara’s crew, about an hour later when the new couple wandered off, he made sure there was a guard posted, on that night of revelry, when all laws did not matter. All of what remained of the Valyrian world was free, and they celebrated like it was. 

* * *

A week later, bells peeled from the Lysene Temple of R'hllor, where Daenerys had been crowned Hegemon and Imperatrix of Valyria. Elaena helped her mount the white mare that had been chosen for her. Daenerys wore a robe of purple, her neck and bosom ablaze with jewels. A pearl diadem crowned her head. With her silver mask in place, and her hair sprinkled with gold dust, the effect was most striking. Elaena held the bridle, and led the horse into the city's main thoroughfare, Canopic Way, a mighty avenue, lined with date and coconut palms. At the head of the procession trotted several squadrons of kataphractoi, and Dothraki light cavalry, halting from time to time to allow the others to catch up. Some of the former indeed, belonged to the Old Blood of Volantis, or had served the rulers of Mantarys, but had now had the good sense to embrace the new regime. A mixed cohort of Unsullied and soldiers of R'hllor, led by Grey Worm, armour and weapons gleaming in the Sun, marched immediately ahead of her and Daenerys, bearing the dragon banners of the Targaryens, as they processed towards the Hippodrome. The rest of the procession was on foot, save for Queen Yara, who rode to the right of the Empress, but slightly behind her. After them followed Daario, Arya, Quaithe, Kinvara, and Maekar, Elaena's paramour who she had quickly discovered that Daenerys, in fact, considered perfectly acceptable; with them were the Dornish envoys, and numerous magnates, all dressed in robes of brocaded silk; Elaena suppressed a grin, as she remembered Arya's expression of disgust when she'd informed her what she would have to wear, in place of her usual servant's apparel and battered soldier's cloak. Further back marched thousands of soldiers, bawling out their marching songs, to the accompaniment of drums, fifes, trumpets, and cymbals. Tens of thousands lined the great thoroughfare, throwing flowers, and chanting, over and again,

 _Many years to you, Hegemon of Valyria. Many years, Daenerys, Imperatix of Valyria, Many your years, Daenerys, Empress of the Valyrians. For the glory and prosperity of Valyria, this indeed is the Lord's great day, Glory, glory, glory in the highest to the Lord of Light, and peace on earth and goodwill toward men. Glory to God, who has crowned you ruler of Valyria. _.__.

In return, attendants among the procession tossed coins to the spectators, from panniers which they carried. This was the greatest conquest in history, surely, thought Elaena. In two and a half years, the entirety of Ghis, Volantis, Mantarys, Tolos, and now Lys, had been brought under a single ruler. For the first time in four hundred years, the domains of Valyria had been almost reunited. But, what a difference! Valyria had been founded on enslavement and cruelty; the new Valyria was a land of free men and women. The monopoly of violence, held by the slavers for centuries, had now been broken decisively, and would never be recovered, regardless of the outcome of the coming battle at sea; millions were now free, many of them armed and trained to fight. They processed onwards as the crowd acclaimed them, Elaena taking care from time to time to step over the deposits left by the cavalry horses. They approached the Golden Gate, the entrance to the Hippodrome, halting for a while, as first the cavalry, and then the infantry filed through it. As they passed through the gate, thousands of people, packed into the stands, acclaimed Daenerys, repeating the same chant as those outside had. The soldiers were drawn up in immaculate formation, waiting to receive them. Before them, kneeling in the dust, with halters around their necks, were two score former masters, who had not fled, when the fleet left the city. They would be formally pardoned, as the others had been at New Ghis, but first they must ask for mercy. Another change from old Valyria. Elaena had learned enough history to know that a conquering general of Valyria would have had defeated enemy leaders ritually strangled.

Looming over the prisoners was Drogon, surrounded by Unsullied attendants. The mighty beast raised his head in greeting, as Daenerys and Elaena approached. The horse flinched, but she held the bridle tight. He served as a reminder to the prisoners that they were fortunate not to have joined those who were burned to death after the arrival of the fleet at the city.

She helped Daenerys to dismount. Gradually, the crowd fell silent. The leader of the surviving masters who had reminded behind when the fleet sailed away spoke, still on his knees.

"Your Majesty. We are guilty of dreadful offences against you, and against the slaves of this city, offences that deserve death as punishment. We have no right to be granted mercy, but still, we beg it of you.'

The man had owned the Pleasure Gardens of the city, filled with slave courtesans of both sexes, famed worldwide for their beauty. The ownership of the Gardens had been transferred to the courtesans, now free men and women. Both Queen Yara and Arya had wanted to open the man's throat, on learning that some of them had been bought from Westeros, yet surprisingly, a number of the freed slaves had spoken up for him. It seemed he was kinder than most of his sort. Ser Daemon had pointed out that even in the Seven Kingdoms, many brothel keeps were far worse.

Elaena then stepped forward to address them. "The Imperatrix Daenerys is Azhor Ahai reborn, the champion of the Lord of Light. To defy her is to defy the will of the Lord. Yet, as the Lord is merciful, so is the Empress. Your lives are not forfeit, therefore. You will make good the harm you have done, by making recompense to those you have wronged. You will be fined three quarters of all that you possess."

"Her majesty is merciful, indeed", replied the man, before he and the others prostrated himself in the dust.

Daenerys, Elaena, and the rest, then made their way to the kathisma, the box reserved for the highest dignitaries. From here, the Empress would address the people. She stood proudly before them; the acoustics of the Hippodrome were so good, there was no need for Kinvara to amplify her voice.

"Good people of Lys, Valyria is reborn. The old Valyria was founded on the backs of its slaves. The new empire is a place of freedom. Never again will men or women be bought and sold as chattels, murdered, raped, and tortured, for the amusement and profit of their masters. " There was a wave of applause from the crowd. "Yet, as you have just witnessed, there is a place in this empire even for those masters who repent, and embrace the new order." More applause, although Elaena noted it was distinctly more muted than before. Nor did she forget that her own family had been slavers. "There are three nations; Valyria, Ghis, and the Seven Kingdoms in the West. They are to remain separate nations, but they will have one ruler, my heir and successor, Princess Elaena Saerganyon." Elaena stepped forward as the crowd roared acclaim. “Until the end of time, her descendants will rule these realms.” Amidst the acclaim, she couldn’t help feeling worried. She had grown to love Daenerys, and nor could she forget Kinvara’s words, that her life was a burden and she craved true death. Was she really planning to leave this world behind her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. In A Storm of Swords, Arya was most upset to learn that her grandfather, Hoster Tully, put a village to the sword during the rebellion, when its lord sided with Aerys II. I have long suspected that Tywin would not have done something so dangerous, legally, as murdering Elia and her children, without getting the green light from someone in the rebel camp. (Remember how Creggan Stark executed those who betrayed Aegon II, despite his crimes, or made them take the Black)? Hoster would be the obvious go-to man, being ruthless like Tywin, and his neighbour.


	18. The Dornish Capes

The fleet that was waiting at the Dornish Capes for the Dragon Queen was one of the largest the world had ever seen. The squadrons of Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys, as well as the Royal Fleet, had met together. That was some four hundred and fifty ships from the Three Daughters, and another two hundred from the rebuilt Royal Fleet and the fleets of the Vale, the Stormlands and Driftmark. One hundred and fifty more ships had arrived from the Redwyne, the third most powerful fleet in the whole Seven Kingdoms after the Ironborn and the Royal Fleet itself. They had hoarded their power until now, but the Three-Eyed Raven had found the levers to force them to obey the summons of the Throne. The sellsails from the Stepstones and others added another twenty-five ships.

Eight hundred and twenty-five ships.

They choked the seas between the island of Sunstone, where they anchored in the sheltered “inland sea” between the Stepstone islands, normally the haunt of pirates, and the stormy Dornish capes, against which they prepared to descend, and pin their approaching enemy on shore.

Both the Dornish capes and Sunstone were strongly posted with soldiers from the Royal Army, which had been withdrawn from their duties attempting to crush the rebellion in Dorne. The troops on Sunstone were also protecting the aristocrats of Lys who were sheltering with their families on the island.

The Empress of the Two Crowns had brought with her almost a thousand ships to Lys, though some of them had to remain to guard the city, against any sudden descent, and more, of course, were heavily laden merchant galleys, unsuited for a battle and held behind. When the sea-lanes were secure, they would be sent for.

_Seven hundred and fifty ships._

It meant that there were almost sixteen hundred ships heading for the clash at the Dornish Capes. In fact, it might well be the largest naval battle in the history of the western world—unless in one of the long lost Valyrian-Ghiscari wars these numbers had been exceeded, and who knew what was wrought in the east—but this titanic threat was as nothing else, and the alliance brought to face it was unprecedented. It meant that on both fleets a combined total of  _four hundred thousand men_ faced their fate: Oarsmen, sailors, marines, soldiers. 

It was as if the population of King’s Landing had taken ship, to go fight a war with itself. In fact, since western Essos alone was the same size as Westeros, it was as if two Kingdoms of Westeros had gone to war. Brynden Tully, as a man of the Riverlands, where river battles saw hundreds of tiny ships, beyond the Ruby Ford, had never seen its like before. A battle between two hundred rowboats on a section of the Trident, where the river widened to a few miles, was nothing as to the distant visage of a sea flecked with the brown spots and white blemishes of hulls and sails. 

Nor in his life had he ever received orders like the ones he had received for to-day from the Three-Eyed Raven.  It was a sealed letter, containing detailed instructions of when he should intervene in the midst of the battle, down to the exact fraction of a minute in the afternoon, to be based on a clock set by the height of the sun at noon. The positions of the shore artillery, the orders that should be issued to the fleet, it was all there, as if the Three-Eyed Raven had witnessed the battle in advance. 

Indeed, Brynden had an uncomfortable feeling that this was precisely what had happened, and it made him feel ever slightly so sympathetic to the Imp. Yes, he’d kill the monster in a heartbeat, but the problem with this very mode of thinking was that his King felt he could account for the probabilities. In fact, even with the Raven’s foresight, Brynden doubted the battle would evolve exactly as he pleased. It never did, and dragons were beings of chaos itself. They could not be controlled or predicted.

The objective of the orders was to kill Drogon, and the Volantene girl the Dragon Queen had found to ride him in battle. But dragons did not like being killed.  The Volantene would be easy. He was not a man of letters, but he’d pressed himself to personally read every account of the dragon combat in the Battles of the Dance of the Dragons that he could. He wanted to understand exactly how they were killed. Certainly the most relevant moment was the death of Prince Jacaerys at the Gullet, and young Aegon’s flight on Stormcloud; pierced through the neck by a scorpion bolt. But Stormcloud was a tiny dragon, on Aegon’s first and last flight. Drogon was at least the size of Vhagar during the Dance, and approaching the size of Balerion during the Conquest. And the death of Vermax and Prince Jacaerys had at least five different versions, though they all agreed that Jacaerys had been lured in too low to the water. 

S o they had to get Drogon low to have a chance. His massive bulk made this easier—the beats of his wings would come closer to the water, more easily.  To try to encourage flying low, they needed to make it harder for the Dragonrider to see. So the ships carried boxes, made fireproof with sheets of hammered copper, and filled with wet branches. Tindered and set on fire they  would smoulder while producing huge quantities of smoke, and the same had been done on shore  with positions all along the capes filled with such pine boughs. 

O f course, it limited his ability to control the operation from shore, but that would be quickly lost when the fires of burning ships obscured the view of the old lighthouse converted into his command post on the shore, and the other commanders could not see him. The Admirals of the independent detachments would have to fight their own battles, anyway, a fleet on this scale was simply something that was much too large for any one man to control. 

Now, in the distance on the southeast, he could see a faint white and brown smudge on the horizon. As the fast galliots and other scouts returning to the fleet had warned them that morning, and the raven from Planky Town, the enemy fleet was arriving. They would doubtless be in position for the battle the next morning.

He had done everything that he could as the land commander. But his men would play only a minor part in the battle, except, of course, collecting the survivors that washed ashore. If the dragon succeeded despite all obstacles, there wouldn’t be many to worry about.

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Yara did not sleep the night before. She knew that she should have, but she just couldn’t. Among other things, the fleet was  _underway,_ and closing with the enemy. Simply mustering it in position, switching from sails to oars, in one mass, had been a massive undertaking of an entire time. Then they had begun to advance into the straits athwarts the Dornish Capes.

What had kept Yara up was the sheer staggering scale of the responsibility. The Ironborn Queen was in most respects better equipped to handle this than most of the other Admirals were; Ironborn fleets were large and fractious and rarely agreed on anything. They were made up of many small longships, and therefore the leader of one had to plan to execute her tactics, as Yara had, understanding the limited control she held.

Even that paled in the face of the sheer concentration of ships in one place that she was dealing with today, though.  _Almost a thousand ships._ Each one of the ships had a single mast rigged, the others had been stowed below for action if they had multiples. The decks were spread with sand, to help with grip and soak up the blood. The pavises were placed along the gunwales. There was a steady easterly chop to the south, which eased up as they entered the channel. 

Overhead was Drogon, having completed a morning sweep high,  _high_ over the enemy fleet, at an altitude of thousands of feet, far beyond the range at which anyone, anything could harm her except for another dragon, or magic. Princess Elaena now descended over Yara’s flagship—an incredible moment by any measure—and with a sharp eye, the Princess dropped a message box down onto the deck. Yara’s crew quickly retrieved it for her, as the dragon rose again with steady and massive beats of wings back into the heavens. From this, Elaena gave her report. She could see the different shades of water as the wind from the north blew down onto the Dornish capes.  The enemy fleet was forming up to the south of them, so that the chop and wind and current would not disrupt their formations before they sortied forth.  It also noted the cities of tents on Sunstone which marked the position of the Lyseni refugees.

_That’s our opportunity, then,_ Yara noted, and set her Myrish long-glass back into its leather case. The enemy fleet was holding position defensively for the moment, but they were doing so in a position dictated by the meeting of the waters from the two seas.  Between the difficulty of retreating through this bad water and the Lyseni desire to defend their civilians on Sunstone, the enemy fleet would likely try to fall back to the east, into the Stepstones, if they were pressed. The risk of those northern currents and waves driving them into the high rock shores of the Dornish capes would only intensify this impulse. 

So Yara prepared her signals quickly. These would be the only set of solid orders that she could issue during the entire battle; she would lose control once the battle was joined of such a huge fleet. So she needed her initial dispositions to be absolutely perfect, or as near to it as the Drowned God would let her, and then trust that courage and skill would carry the day in the squadron-to-squadron battles that would follow, and that Elaena would correctly read the signals that would be sent to her by the forming of placards facing up into simulated flag signals which could be read from the air, on the deck of her flagship.

The signals that Yara gave were quite specific, but also simple. They began to divide the fleet in two—one hammer to break through along the Dornish Capes, and the second to catch the enemy fleet as it began to retire back toward Sunstone. The scale of the battle was immense: The flag signals had to be relayed and Yara could not see the entire fleet, let alone the enemy fleet. Only Elaena could do that. As the fleet split in two, an opening, screened by a light number of galliots and frigatas, would exist in the middle—a tempting path for the enemy to attack down. To these squadrons, Yara ordered them to begin to withdraw when pressed by the enemy; they should retreat, and flee, and with very good reason, too.

With the sky-facing placards, they signalled to Elaena, directing that she should burn in the middle, when the enemy committed to an attack. She acknowledged this message by the counter-signal of three quick banking turns in each direction, and then settling back into orbiting the fleet.

That was it, then, they had committed to their battle-plan. Yara popped some jerky into her mouth, and chewed as she waited for the evolution of the manoeuvre to be completed. It would be two hours before they were close enough for contact, so she waited to give her speech to encourage the men aboard her flagship until they were closer. Her words to the entire fleet had already been distributed, to be read by the Captains:

_Today, your utmost efforts are required in the service of freedom. The storm we have brought to the East must visit also the West, or else our glorious purpose is not yet done. Many of you have relatives and kinsmen still suffering under the monster who rules Westeros. All of you know that freedom must be won with blood. Do not show pity to his men. Upon this day, your courage will make free men the masters of all the western world._

Keep it short. Yara was a practical woman, there were only so many words to say. She could see now that they were drawing closer, and the enemy fleet still had not shifted from position, backing water. It was smart enough. Yara’s own oarsmen would have been working for hours when the fleets came into contact, the enemy’s would be relatively rested by comparison. It couldn’t be helped.

And, the enemy didn’t have a dragon.

“Alright, lads! Let’s break ‘em!”

Nothing more to say.

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Smoke, flame, wood and cordage burning on the water, the whiff of pitch in the air, especially the pitch, redolent from the continuously burning boughs of trees on the forecastles of ships below, trying to stop her. It was overwhelming and intoxicating. Below her, below Drogon, battle boiled across miles and miles of sea, filling the great channel with hundreds upon hundreds of ships, all clashing together.

She moved and moved swiftly, the air shrieking across her armour, chilling it against the heat of the sun. She felt like one with Drogon. The enemy fleet had ignored the bait and not gone forward on the attack in the centre as Yara had decided. Elaena imagined it the foresight of the Three-Eyed Raven. But she had adapted to the circumstances and prepared her own counterstroke as quickly as she could. Rather than wait for new instructions or the attack to develop, she had seen how the enemy ships in the middle were being called, by the answering sounds of trumpet and drum and by flag too, and pulled back and shifted to each side of the formation, essentially creating two separate battles between two forces of equal strength.

Elaena knew that it was her one good chance to burn in despite the enemy’s efforts of concealment and without risking her own people. So she attacked. Flames that could turn ships at once into a floating torch erupted, a kind of hideous black fire as Drogon had grown older, an unnatural magical power which flashed wooden to flame in a heartbeat. One ship disappeared, then another, then another. She stayed as high as the effect of his flame would let her, and each time that she burned, the screams were lost in the waves, the sound of ramming ships, the dim echo of steel slamming on steel tens of thousands of times over, the roll and cry of drum and trumpet.

Drogon was longer than most of the ships in the battle. Loosing an arrow almost straight up against him was a brutal affair. Men felt a sense of helplessness, as the fire fell down upon them, and they could not fire _up._ Only the ballistae and scorpions had a chance of hitting him. Bolts bounced off his dragonscale without so much as scratching it; his wings were damaged by fire, but the enemy thinning themselves out in the centre did not give them the density of shot to threaten his flight. So she burned, came about, burned again. The ships they attacked fled to the left, they fled to the right, their oarsmen straining hard. But what was all the strength of men against that giant beast, which could go five times faster than a galley? And those ships which escaped into the masses on the west and east sides, brought with them panic and despair and demoralised crews. It was almost an advantage to her own side to let them go.

Elaena didn’t indulge herself for a moment. Between Maekar back on Lys, and the inheritance of the realms, and the knowledge that the Queen and Quaithe were watching her from a large Summer Islander Swan Ship hanging well back from the battle, she would not permit herself to think of “proving” herself, but to acknowledge her duty to kill like a mercenary, choosing the targets which could least fight back, and letting the savage law of attrition, well-covered in the books of tactics and strategy of old Valyria, be her aid to Yara’s fight as the admiral of the fleet. So, until given orders to the contrary or the situation otherwise changing, she chose isolated groups of ships, and like a predator marking the weakened beasts on the edge of the herd, she closed with them, and she burned.

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Yara’s ship pressed into the throng of the enemy close in to the capes. The heavy Ironborn ship, a clinker-built galley of the type unique to the Iron Fleet, slammed into her first victim, and then another, before she was helplessly tangled by her signal-yards, nestled into a morass of three enemy ships, with the press of ramming, of the telaro, of bolt and arrow all around. Her flagship, _Long Serpent _, was one of the few fitted entirely with polyboli, and the repeating-ballistae swept the decks of the enemy. From the yards of the lone rigged mast amidships, a group of four archers rained down fire on the deck of one of the nearest of the enemy ships.__

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The bronze wheels cranked on the side of the polyboli. Steel was bent by the heaviest of cable until the next bolt dropped into position, and was fired, to split two men in twain with a single strike, or crash through the thin wood of the riggers with the tholepin oars splitting above. The lines of shields on the decks were knocked in. The favour was repaid, but at half the rate; even pressed hard and outnumbered, they soon had the measure of their enemy.

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The enemy they were fighting, Myrish men, struggled to gain their decks. Half-pikes thrust between the rows of shields met them, and men fell down into the roiling sea, to be crushed between the two hulls if they had survived the spear. The water there churned white and red with blood and froth, and was choked with wood and dead bodies.

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Now the rest of the battle mattered very little to Yara. She mustered a body of fifty men, some of her oldest Ironborn companions, on the poop. Only the dozen or so ships around them were anything she could influence. The flag signal for “close action” fluttered from the central signal mast, and anyone who could see it, would know to obey. But they mostly had, and a line of tangled and snarled ships were all that she could see around them, as men fought and died on the slick decks.

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As the enemy fire slacked away, there was a cracking sound from the mast. With the shrouds tangled, the working of the seas on the hull had finally snapped the mast. The men in the tops made haste to reach the deck—some of them did. Yara could do nothing for the others, and only watch coldly as they topped into the water, for uncertain chances of survival. A groan went out from some of the men.

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But for all that, the mast was leaning across the deck of one of the enemy ships. “Now’s our chance, men!” She drew one of her axes, and led them forward. “Water or glory!”

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Stumbling and staggering, nailing the shrouds and yards along the rocking, creaking, broken mast, they scrambled and swung and climbed, and flung themselves down onto the enemy deck. The men of Myr had suffered horribly already. Bodies littered the deck, shot through with arrows or hit with slingshot or massacred by the boulders and the baskets of rocks and the ballista bolts flung by the engines of war on the decks of her ships.

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Still they came on with sword, shield, spear. She flung an axe, and another, bringing down a man in the midst of the charge before resorting to one of her larger melee axes, the haft wrapped in thin bronze plate—a sword would have a bloody hard time chopping through it. Behind her, a shield wall of fighting men of the Ironborn had formed. “These bastards are standing between us and our homes—kill ‘em!” She went low, swung her axe in. A sword descended over her, but was quickly blocked by Tristifer. The roar behind her in approval of her sharp and simple words was all else that she needed. They surged forward across the slaughter-painted deck.

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Flying over the smoke-shrouded battle, the scale of the carnage was staggering. Elaena swore she could smell the dead even from a thousand feet up, perhaps it was her imagination, but the number of men gutted and killed on the decks had to be in the thousands, even beyond those whose stench was masked as they floated dead in the water, by a blow of a missile or a sword or spear, or by drowning, dead all the same.

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The sea was a carpet of flotsam. Light-hulled galleys and dromonds rarely fully sank, at least, not until completely waterlogged. The hulls of those ships rammed or burned by Drogon’s own flames down to the waterline now drifted amidst the tangled-together hulls of those ships which were still fighting. With decks awash, or remnants of charred timbers projecting above the surface of the water and the swash of the breakers, wounded and dying and simply desperate men clung to them for life and limb, as the ruins of masts and sails and oars bashed into the hulks from all around.

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By now, all of the enemy who would engage in battle, had engaged in battle. The ruins of the burned and destroyed ships stretched across the horizon. But, Elaena was drawn to the west, where Yara’s ship had disappeared into the fray. _Long Serpent's _signal-mast was gone, now pressing in toward the beach, as the current and waves from the north caught them, and began to drag a great raft of ships in toward the savage rocks of one of the Dornish Capes.__

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She angled closer. The Queen very much loved Yara and held her affection and loyalty dear. Now was the time. She needed to break the enemy and quickly—there was risk, but they also had to win the battle, and even if they were pressing ahead, the combat of ships locked together, hand to hand, man to man on the pitching decks where a single mistake was death, was not yet a certain thing to gain them a signal victory on this day of terrible bloodshed.

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“DRACARYS!” Fire tore into the rear line of the enemy from behind, snapping across masts and rigging and into those ships at the rear which, in a battle of this type, would inevitably position themselves to feed their marines forward, deck to deck, to the ships at the front that were actively in combat with the enemy. This role was just as important as any other, but carefully, and from low altitude at the side, to the north, behind them, she could burn them without creating fires which would erupt and spread to the ships of her own side tangled together further into the mass of the enemy.

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With massive beats of black wings, Drogon swung toward the headland of the cape. Every ballistae on the decks of the ships which were still manned opened fire against her, and balls and bolts whizzed past in either direction. Her plate was enormously heavy and padded with strange arts of old Valyria, but a solid blow would still be a lethal affair.

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There was a battery on the crest of the cape, standing over the cliff-faces. Now, as she put five dozen ships to the flame, they were lined up across the cliff, with the sun silhouetting them from behind, and blazing at Elaena’s eyes. Up there, where she couldn’t see it, a man marked the time, and gave the order.

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Well back from the terrible battle, with the evening coming on fast, Quaithe directed a crystal set in a set of bronze gears toward the northwest. It was magical, of course, a far-seeing instrument of Old Valyria, and probably the only one of its kind left in the world. She rather felt it almost sacrilege to have taken it so far from Mantarys, onto the pitching deck of a ship, but then, she valued her life, and her cause, a very great deal, and both were worth even such a wonder. Hooded and shrouded and masked against the rays of the sun that would burn her even as she served the Unburnt, the woman who had once been known as Shiera Seastar noted the time against her auguries.

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Daenerys looked toward her uncomfortably. “Quaithe, Elaena is on the attack now. Are you ready yet?”

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“Almost, Your Grace. Almost. It’s not quite time.” Before them, a bronze cauldron held hot coals. A freedman of Lys had willingly given a measure of blood, and with it, his severed pinky fingers. It would be adequate for this task.

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“Drogon is under heavy fire,” the Queen murmured tautly. Her mask hid the emotional pain, that she was not the one there, leading her son, flying with him, on his back, in armour, facing the enemy herself. Quaithe could see that clearly enough, she didn’t need to read Her Grace’s mind to tell.

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“Almost,” the elder undead, the creature of shadow, murmured sharply. “Almost…”

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A flicker of light, a mirror reflecting an order. The batteries along the cliff-heights erupted. “Now!”

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Daenerys opened her wrist, just slightly, with a Valyrian steel dagger; blood to the flame. Quaithe upturned the fingers and the blood with them, and setting aside the instrument, grasped her dagger and joined her, created a bridge between Daenerys and Drogon.

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They could see in that moment, clearly, the situation. Elaena was no naive girl anymore, but a combat veteran. She smartly moved across the ambush, giving fire. She was _good,_ and capable. But the ambushers had been _told in advance where she would be; they marked the hour exactly, they knew the left turn she was about to make…_

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And then, with Daenerys’ subtle influence on her son, Drogon did not make the turn. The next tremendous salvo of bolts went wide, and Elaena, recovering from the moment, indeed, accepting that Drogon had a mind of his own and had chosen another course, brought herself back around to the right—flames licked across the heights of land, and smashed twenty ballistae in a heartbeat, their crews incinerated where they stood, trying to reload.

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It was terrible, and horrifying—for the Royal Army. Their best effort, and they had failed. Now, as they worked to reload, she swept back across the cape, and burned again. A solid swathe a hundred feet wide simply vanished. Forty more ballistae were instantly incinerated. Archers drawn up on the coast in ordered ranks tried to flee, but they vanished into the flames. Nothing was left of them when it passed by and left only a few guttering flames in its wake, everything flammable already destroyed. Quaithe and Daenerys could _see it, see it through Drogon’s eyes._ The ground-cover flashed to flame. The soil melted, slagged into rock to cool and solidify as black rock over the natural bedrock below.

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Now, Elaena came about, and directed her attention toward the spearmen who were posted along the beaches at the base of the cliff, with orders to seize or kill those who were washed ashore. Again she gave fire, and again. While she did, the enemy could see her there, on the western flank of the battlefield, a looming and immediate threat, destroying the detachments of the Royal Army on the shore. Soon enough, she would turn back and kill more of them, just as she had minutes before. They began to disengage to the east, finally meeting Yara’s plan, hours late, and thousands more dead than they had hoped, but meeting the plan nonetheless.

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They would try to retreat, and with the next dawn, they would find the eastern wing of Daenerys’ fleet waiting for them, and Drogon, ready to scatter them to the four winds with incinerating gusts of flame. Back on the coast, where the spearmen died, the steam was still rising from where Drogon’s breath had flashed the sea into vapour. Searching through the growing dark, in the murk of smoke and fog and steam, Quaithe and Daenerys now withdrew from Drogon, the brief power of the spell fading. But they knew he was well, as the faint tongues of unnatural, almost but not quite black-light flame, flickered across the battlefield, driving their enemy in flight across the sea toward the east, in the hope of shelter that would not come.

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Across the battlefield, thousands of men, wounded or exhausted, began to lose their struggles with the sea, and slip beneath the waves.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Ancient and medieval naval battles could involve vastly greater numbers than battles on land. Cape Ecnomus, in the First Punic War, is probably the largest naval battle ever fought, in terms of numbers. Over 300,000 were involved.


	19. Portents

There was a certain beauty, Tyrion thought, about watching a town go up in flames, especially knowing that you were the commander who had ordered it. Orange, gold, and red, the fires above Pebbleton rose into the sky, complimenting the rays of the setting sun. More than five thousand men, women, and children had been taken captive, and would be sold in due course to Master Gelgill and his partners. The man stood by him, sharing a flask of Tyroshi pear brandy, and commenting on the scene.

“I trust you have no qualms about selling children, my lord” remarked the merchant.

“No, why should I?”

“You may not credit it, but Queen Sansa actually stopped their sale, when she captured Pyke. “

“Sansa? That doesn’t sound like her!”

“She felt sorry for them, it seems.” Gelgill snorted with amusement. Tyrion frowned. Sansa was many things, but he’d never thought of her as soft. Well, yes, when she was a young girl trapped in the Red Keep, but not after she became a woman grown. He was sure that between them, his sister, Margaery Tyrell, Littlefinger, and Lord Bolton had cured her of any such feelings.

“They’ll fetch a rare price from our friends in the East, I should think” (a fair proportion of which would find its way into Tyrion’s pockets. King Brandon never objected to his servants enriching themselves, so long as they did his bidding). Talking of which, “Is there any more news from those parts? “ On Great Wyk, Tyrion was kept out of the loop of information.

“We know the Dragon Bitch is sailing West” replied the merchant. “She’s done immense harm in the East, although I can’t really complain - I’m getting prices for slaves I would never have dreamed of charging previously. Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys have united against her, along with King Brandon. There’s a great battle coming. May the gods grant us victory!”

“Amen to that” replied Tyrion fervently. Never a religious man, he had still spent a fortune lighting candles to the Seven, to exhort them to bring victory. They walked towards the harbour surrounded by armed guards. A row of gallows had been erected, on which members of House Merlyn and their servants were being hanged. In accordance with his King’s orders, Tyrion had recruited among his father’s former soldiers, and brought a force of more than ten thousand to the island. He had devastated half the island, although Hammerhorn Castle still remained in enemy hands. An attractive daughter of House Merlyn awaited Tyrion’s pleasure, in the manse he had requisitioned on the edge of the town. Whether she went free, or was sold, would depend on the degree of satisfaction she provided him with. He looked on indifferently as the condemned men and women were pushed off the platform in turn, to dance and piss themselves, until they went still.

“Justice is done my lord” remarked Gelgill. Tyrion nodded.

“Perhaps you would care to join me for supper, Master Gelgill”? The merchant agreed. They turned and walked away towards the manse, up the mud street.

“What did you think of Queen Sansa?” asked Tyrion, eventually.

“Are you trying to trap me in treason, Lord Tyrion?” replied the other, after a pause.

“No, I’m interested. Your opinions will go no further.”

“Very well, she’s not nearly as hard as she likes to appear. She’s not your sister, whatever people may say. Cersei wouldn’t have hesitated to sell children. Well , she did in fact, a pair of King Robert’s bastards.”

“So, that rumour was true then?”

“Oh yes, the buyer is a colleague of mine. A Tyroshi. Going back to Queen Sansa, really she needs a husband, to show her how to rule.”

“Have you proposed to her?” The other man laughed.

“I prefer to remain in the shadows. It’s much safer that way.”

“I was once married to her, you know.”

“So what happened? She’s a beautiful, refined, woman. How did you lose her.”

“A very long story. I was framed for murder and had to flee abroad. By the time I returned, she had been wed again, to an animal. They say”, and here Tyrion couldn’t resist a leer, “ that he made her perform the most degrading acts for him, things you’d have to pay a small fortune for in brothels. She escaped him, and ended up feeding him to his own dogs.”

Gelgill gave an appreciative whistle. “Perhaps I’ve underestimated her.” Tyrion still hoped that Bran would keep his half-promise, and give him Sansa. King in the North, with a beautiful wife fulfilling his desires? There were much worse fates than that.

They reached the manse, and servants took their coats. They sat down to a rich beef and vegetable pottage, followed by game birds, crabs, and roasted lamb. They chatted companionably thought the evening, mainly about the state of the slave trade. Unsurprisingly, the Seven Kingdoms was now the hub of the trade, given how much of the East had been closed off. “No, I can’t complain right now” the merchant repeated. “So long as we win, of course.” _So long as we win. _The thought that nagged at him constantly. Gelgill might be able to disappear if the fight went against them, he was the type who would vanish into obscurity, but as for Tyrion, well, his chances of disguise were slim indeed. There were few noseless dwarves in the Seven Kingdoms, or anywhere else for that matter. He knew full well he was hated across two continents, despised as a parricide and traitor. Gelgill took his leave, while Tyrion went to his chambers to enjoy the daughter of House Merlyn. She proved completely unresponsive to his advances, so in the morning, he told Gelgill to sell her with the rest.__

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It was while he broke his fast that the messenger discovered him. A raven had arrived from Kings Landing, bearing a message for him. He read it as he ate. _From his Grace, Brandon Stark, first of his name, to Lord Tyrion, Greeting. We commend your zeal in enforcing our orders in the Iron Islands, and restore you to the Small Council. We request you to return forthwith to the capital, for further instructions and advancement._

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Well, that had to be good news, didn’t it? Restored to favour. Now all he wanted was to be given Sansa. ______________________________________________________________________________________________________

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“Robyn’s a beautiful man. Perhaps I should bed him myself”, giggled Myranda Royce, as she lay with Sansa. It was almost midnight. The Queen hated to sleep on her own, and usually shared her four-poster with one of her ladies.

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“Don’t you dare, Randa!” she replied, laughing in turn. “It’s not as if you’re short of admirers in any case. “ If there was any pretty young squire or officer at Winterfell that Lady Royce had not lain with, it could only be because the man was a eunuch or favoured his own sex.

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“Why don’t you marry him, then? He comes from the wealthiest family in the North, but he’s the son of a younger brother. He won’t overshadow you.” In truth, it was not a bad idea, and she had considered it. But, there was a catch. “I might be putting his head in a noose. When the Dragon Queen returns, do you think she will show mercy to any man that I’m married to?” Myranda sighed. “I couldn’t believe it at first, that she’d returned, but I should have done. My cousin talked about the Dead, and how evil magic could bring them back. I pray to the Seven every day that you and your brother will destroy her”. Sansa had heard of the fall of Lys. She knew too, of the coming naval battle, and prayed to the Old Gods and the New for victory. Robyn and Randa were the two people who kept her sane, right now. Lord Nestor had wanted his daughter to marry Sweetrobin, a prospect which horrified the merry young widow. She’d confided that the Lord Arryn dribbled and picked his nose. But, even her father had to acknowledge that it was a high honour for his daughter to be chosen as Lady in Waiting to a Queen, so he had given his consent to Sansa’s proposal. She’d brought one of Robert Baratheon’s bastards, Mya Stone, with her as a companion. The young woman had been eager to leave the Vale, after Sweetrobin had tried to rape her at the Eyrie. Sansa was fond of Mya, who, like Randa, had been kind to her during her time as “Alayne Stone”.

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“Dear Sir Harold has written, offering to wed me. When we first met, I was Baelish’s bastard, unfit to escort him to his chamber at your castle. Now, that I’m a queen, it seems I’m acceptable to him.”

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“Ugh, he’s fathered a couple more bastards, since you left the Vale. He has extremely wandering hands, I can tell you. And, he’s certainly not as a capable in the bedchamber as he thinks he is.” _No doubt you speak from experience._

____

“Still, he is the heir to the Vale, I suppose. There could be advantage to marrying him.”

____

“And, I doubt if you’d worry about giving him up to the Dragon Queen!” They both laughed.

____

There was a loud knock on the bedroom door. Mya Stone and a handmaid entered, bearing thick woollen gowns, against the night chill. “Your Grace” began Mya, “Chief Inquisitor Yagoda requests to meet you in your study. He has important information.” Sansa sighed, but got out of bed. Her friend looked at her quizzically. “Yes, come with me” said the Queen. They all made their way to her study. Yagoda was present with Wolkan, an officer of her guards, and another inquisitor. Yagoda spoke. “I apologise for waking you, your Grace, but Inquisitor Lorsen“ (he nodded towards the man) “ has important news. Speak before the Queen’s Grace.”

____

“It is ill news, your Grace. There is a widespread conspiracy against you. The mountain clans, Flint, Norrey, Wull, have joined with the Mormonts of Bear Island, and the Lords of the Stoney Shore, to renounced allegiance. Four thousand of them march on Deepwood Motte. “ Sansa cursed. A little over two years ago, she had captured the Motte and sold its inhabitants into slavery. The castle and its lands had been sold to one of the Cerwyns.

____

“What of its lord?”

____

“He is heavily outnumbered. He will find it hard to stand a siege. “ She pondered for a while. She preferred to keep most of her army stationed around Winterfell. She felt safer that way. Before she could decide, Lorsen continued. “There is worse. Lady Mormont has claimed “there is no king in the North but Jon Snow”. We have word that he has left the far North, although we are not clear where he is, presently. One must infer that he is a part of this revolt.” _Jon fucking Snow. I should have had him killed months ago. Of course, he’d be up to his neck in this. No doubt he’s heard by now, that Daenerys Targaryen has returned from the dead, and will want revenge. He’s trying to curry favour with her. She was so besotted with him, she might just forgive him. But, could she really add kinslaying to her lengthy list of crimes? She shuddered at what Father, Robb, even Mother, would have thought of that!_

____

“Then I must lead an army to Deepwood Motte” she remarked, at length.

____

“With respect not, your Grace,” commented Yagoda. “I have suspicions regarding the Free Folk, North of the Wall. You have almost ten thousand men, stationed in this castle, and its environs. It would be unwise to divide your forces. Snow is the real threat, in my opinion. We must direct our efforts to finding, and eliminating him. My inquisitors are searching everywhere for him. Execute him very publicly, and this revolt will collapse of its own accord. I believe Kings Landing would strongly favour that course of action. “ Of course, he would be in touch with his counterparts, Allyron and Hoat, in the South, but what did they know in Kings Landing that she didn’t? She remembered the outlaws who had seized The Dreadfort. Yagoda had swept down on them, and killed most on the spot. The survivors had been brought back to Wintertown, to be hanged, before being cut down while still breathing, and then gelded and quartered before the townsfolk. She had thought it a salutary lesson, but this revolt was far more serious.

____

“I disagree” countered Wolkan, breaking in on her thoughts. “Your cousin still has a following in the North. His execution would spark outrage. And would your Grace really wish to be branded a kinslayer?” he asked, guessing her thoughts.

____

“Give me time to think it over, I must retire.” She returned to her bedchamber with Randa. “What do you think?” she asked her, as they lay together, her head resting in the crook of the other woman’s arm. Her friend remained silent for a while, then,

____

“How well do you trust that man, Yagoda?”

____

“Very well. He’s uncovered evidence of sedition and treason, right across the North. Lady Dustin, for example. She planned to betray me to the Dragon Queen. He had her poisoned. It looked like a natural death.” She felt the other woman stiffen.

____

“Poisoned? Shouldn’t she have been questioned, or placed on trial?” Randa withdrew her arm, and turned to look Sansa directly in the eye.

____

“She’s not the first, Randa. And, she won’t be the last. How do you think I’ve come so far, how the North is ruled?”, she replied coolly. Her friend looked at her with something approaching horror. A part of Sansa rather relished that look on her face.

____

Time to learn the price of your privileges, Randa. The things I must do so that you can dance, and feast, and fuck half the court.

____

“Poisoned”, she repeated softly. “I wonder what Alayne Stone would think of that.”

____

“Alayne Stone died a long time ago. You’d think I’d have lost any illusions about the world after my time in Kings Landing. But, no, even in the Vale, I was still hopelessly naïve. I’m a slow learner. But, I learned my lesson eventually. In this world, you’re either trampling your enemies’ faces, or having them trample yours. I know which I prefer.”

____

Myranda was silent a long time, before replying “I don’t think that’s a lesson I ever want to learn.”

____

“Pray you never have to. Don’t imagine I’ve done anything that any other ruler of the Seven Kingdoms hasn’t.” Sansa replied.

____

After a pause, her friend asked “Have you never thought, that Yagoda and his people might be playing on your worries? They’re paid to discover plots and treasons. So, they discover plots and treasons.“ She hadn’t thought of that, as it happened. Another thing to add to her list of worries.

____

“I doubt he’d invent a story about a revolt.”

____

“I doubt it too. I’m not talking about that. Nor about the Dreadfort. I’m not naïve, those men brought their fate on themselves, horrible though it was. I’m talking about the others. Are you sure that everyone who gets arrested is guilty? Are you sure Jon Snow, your own kin, is guilty?”

____

“No, I’m not” she replied after a time. “I won’t give that order, without knowing more…..I’ve already wronged him. He may have slain Daenerys Targaryen, but….my hand guided the knife to her heart. It suited me very well to send him into exile.”

____

“I’m not sure now that the gods will answer our prayers, Sansa”, whispered Myranda, eventually.

____

“Can you hold me, please, Randa? It helps me to sleep,” she asked. The other woman wrapped her arms around her, clasping the back of her head to her ample bosom, and gradually, she drifted off.

____

_She walked along a road, through a ruined land. Smoke roiled across her vision, choking her, making it hard for her to see. Here and there, flames appeared through the smoke. There was much worse lining the road, poles and gibbets, with the remains of men and women impaled, or hanging. She noted to her dismay, that some were still alive, stirring feebly. She saw the walls of a great city in the distance, but all blackened, ruined. Still, she continued on her path, entering the city. It was a smoking wasteland of charred streets and burned out buildings. Bodies lay in the roads, turned to charcoal, as ash and snow drifted softly down. War had devastated the city. The Dragon Queen’s war, her brother’s war, her war. They came to a square, filled with people. A great platform had been raised, on which she saw King Brandon, naked, writhing on a stake which protruded from his mouth, face contorted in agony. Kneeling, with hands bound, were the rest of his supporters, the Imp, her uncle Brynden, Bronze Yohn Royce, Bronn Stokeworth, as men sharpened and greased fresh stakes for them. Below the platform, men and women were chained to metal poles, surrounded by logs, and kindling, crying out for mercy, as the crowd laughed and roared and sang. She recognised them too; Samwell Tarly, Robyn Manderly, Myranda Royce, Mya Stone, Joanna Umber, and others. Men came forth, bearing torches, and put them to the kindling, as their victims shrieked. And then, looking up, she saw HER, staring down impassively from the steps of the Red Keep. Silver haired, amethyst eyed, dressed in black and scarlet, beautiful and terrible as the dawn, treacherous as the sea, stronger than the foundations of the earth! Here, yes here indeed, was the Mother of Dragons, returned to this Middle Earth to lead her people into war, that her enemies might be utterly cast down and destroyed, even as the crowd chanted her name, and cried:_

____

_“You have trampled the lion and the direwolf; the merman and the huntsman hast thou trodden underfoot.” And standing next to her, holding hands, her traitorous cousin, Jon Snow._

____

_She wanted to flee, but found herself rooted on the spot. Rough guards grabbed her, dragging her over to the platform, forcing her up the steps. The crowd jeered as she was stripped naked, pointing and laughing at the scars that disfigured her body, left by the Beast of Bolton. Brutal hands pawed at her. Mockingly, someone placed a paper crown on her head. Her hands were bound behind her, and then she was forced to her knees, as a man brought over a stake, specially prepared for her. She screamed, but no one could hear her._

____

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

____

After the Battle of the Dornish Capes, there had been little resistance to the advance of the fleet. They had swept through and taken the Stepstones. The aristocrats of Lys who had escaped to Sunstone, to await the failed hope of their fleet, were marooned there, with a herald providing notice to them that they could farm the island, or die. In fact, it was fertile, and without the chronic violence, a perfectly viable place, that already had a small permanent population, intermixed of Valyrian and Rhoynar, or Dornish; but for those who had never had to work with their hands in their lives, the death rate would certainly be high. However, it was a fitting punishment, and they had brought it on themselves.

____

With their fleet defeated and so many of their fighting age men scattered to the four winds aboard it, or outright killed by the thousands, Tyrosh could not prevent the landing of Daenerys’ fleet on the island, and an overland march to put the city to siege by the landed Army. Without any reliable means of defence, the city was in a severe position. Elaena had reached the point of trust, particularly with her quick recovery from the ambuscade and acceptance of the brief control Daenerys had asserted over Drogon—her ability to quickly turn and burn—that she was allowed to command the organisation of the siege. After a month, the city granted terms, being given consideration as Daario’s place of birth; all slaves in the city were immediately freed without compensation, and the Army was to be quartered there, indefinitely, with the former slaveowners funding the provisions out of their treasury, out of which they secured their lives and their homes. A Governor was appointed by the Empress, and the city was annexed to the Valyrian Empire.

____

The city, with its large island harbour and secure position, had naturally become the base of the massive fleet which was now completely restricting commerce from entering the Narrow Sea, unless it was travelling under a Braavosi or Pentoshi seal, indicating that it was trading with those cities under their permission. Sweeps of ships through the Stepstones halted any vessel they found. Both cities had agreed to a blockade of trade with Westeros. Now only ships from Ib were reaching Westeros, and jokes about how the nobility of the land had to replace their finery with whale fat were circulating and quite popular.

____

Daenerys had made Elaena Aide-de-Camp to the Governor of Tyrosh to give her experience with practical governance. She had found herself worked from dawn to dusk on matters ranging from the distribution of food to freedmen, to the reorganisation of the fire brigade, to repairs to sewers and aqueducts. It was an intense lesson over the course of a few months in the details, the fine details, of how a society actually ran. She had plenty of assistants, but it was her job to make decisions on everything not important enough to bring to the Governor, and present notes and information to the Governor for a decision, on everything else. It was very much _real work,_ that had forced her to learn many things.

____

Each night, she came back to the picture of Maekar, which she had had painted before departing Lys, and sighed. She had developed quite the crush, though she knew that, as a Princess, her marriage was a matter of Daenerys’ decision, and not her own.

____

Still, it gave her something else to think about.

____

She wasn’t able to think about it for long, though. Looking at the picture, and reading a brief letter of correspondence from her father—another thinly veiled effort for support from his heroic daughter, who was doing so much for the cause of the Empire, etc, etc—she heard a very soft set of footsteps. Some of the skills that Yara had taught her involved simply the patience to tell such things apart. She turned, pushing her chair back, a scrape on the stone of the floor. Her hand went for the dagger at her side.

____

“Oh come now, why the rough greeting?” Shiera grinned down. “You knew it was me.”

____

“I did, but who among the Empress’ inner circle would ever forgive me for being a sluggard about my own defence? Her Majesty has high standards for me, I won’t let them down.”

____

Shiera laughed. “Fierce young dragon. I felt much the same once, but I had less freedom to exercise it and certainly no expectations for me at all—except those I set for myself. You are very fortunate to be Daenerys’ woman, and not someone else’s.”

____

Elaena felt herself relax and smile. It still came naturally around Shiera. Something of the blood of the dragon in her made her less afraid around such a natural predator as the woman had become, than other breeds of men might be, or so she thought. Shiera put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Healthy young woman,” she smirked. “Boys first and foremost.”

____

“I worked from dawn to dusk on every bloody detail of this city,” Elaena laughed, batting at the arm, though it might as well have been a steel rod. “I’m just trying to take my ease, before I sleep.”

____

“Perhaps I shall keep you up longer, then. And I apologise for it, but it’s also important that we begin, now that I have some time, and you are trusted and in the right place to begin learning.”

____

“...Lady Quaithe?” Elaena dared. Normally it would always be Lady Quaithe, sure, but here, Shiera was not in her mask, and might be any Valyrian-blooded woman, to a world which assumed she had to die a century before.

____

Shiera grabbed her, and hauled her up, and pulled her close, eyes growing abruptly intense, into dark pits. “You are a child of the old blood of Valyria. It’s time for you to start learning what I am the very last to know. You are a woman of a Dragonlord family, a Dragonlord yourself. The magic of the Blood Mages and Stormsingers of our ancestors flows in your veins.”

____

The night seemed to press closer outside, and Elaena felt a slightly flat sound to the air, yes, felt a sound to the air, like a not-quite-hum out of the corner of the world. She did not fear, or turned away, but nodded once, thinking that no-one would come to get them or check on them, for as long as Shiera pleased.

____

“If the Lord of Light gives you any doubts, remember that shadows are created by light,” the undead woman murmured. “There must be another. You must always be ready to defeat Daenerys’ enemies, do you doubt that? No, I know you too well now. If nothing else, you know how to ride a waxing tide, Elaena.”

____

Elaena sucked in a breath to protest, but instead found herself pulled by the sorceress. It was not a quick drag of her feet across marble though. The world itself seemed to change, becoming shadowy and more indistinct. She held her breath as she felt the air itself might no longer exist, with a cold, icy hand enfolded around her. And then, gripped in the undead creature’s strong hands, they slipped _through the door_ and past the guards at Elaena’s door—and carried on down the hall, Shiera’s voice laughing thin and flat. “When you have studied as a Shadowbinder in Asshai for a hundred years, walls and barriers mean an expenditure of blood, that’s all.” They reached a sealed room and pushed within it. There, cauldrons were set, and books were arranged on reading racks, and at last, they exited the strange not-quite-world of being dragged along through the shadows.

____

“You will come voluntarily, under your own power, next time, I think; these books are in High Valyrian and they are the legacy of your family, as once Visenya knew, long ago, and as once the Blood Mages and Stormsingers of Old Valyria knew how to work the subtle powers such as to make their great gleaming cities, with black towers glinting of glass in the sun, where dragons roosted, uncaring of the lava that flowed like rivers where some other city of a people less sure in their art would know only water.”

____

Elaena stared for a moment. These were whispered as legends of Valyria, but Shiera gave them as confident facts. “Have you seen them?”

____

“Oh no, child, not even I can survive going to Valyria. But I have the books.” She stepped forward, laughing, and let Elaena come to her side, and she did quickly, with an eager hunger, to see the _illuminations,_ the wild images of the impossible which filled out the books, while on their pages were recorded ancient magic, ancient stories of the city.

____

“I have never been to Valyria, but these books have. And the one account of the ruins that exists bears out the tale.”

____

“There is an _account_?” Elaena looked up, frowning. “You just said it was impossible even for you to survive.”

____

“From a humble Westerosi Septon, no less, King Jaehaerys’ advisor and High; his name was Barth, ask the Westerosi in the Queen’s court about him. Early in my life, I obtained a copy of his writings about the words that Princess Aerea spoke during her agonising death in King’s Landing, on her return from Valyria. Balerion the Black Dread was strong enough to buy her a precious gift—the ability to see the city, make it out while still alive, and tell someone else about it before she died in agony. Nobody who was not mounted on his back would have ever been so lucky if they had dared what she had dared. Of course, the Maesters and wise men of the world think this account is lost, but I have it. She saw the ruins of the towers of Old Valyria, and the wonders therein.”

____

“...Of course…” Her voice managed to be seductive and horrifying at once, “as with all knowledge, she paid a price for it.” Shiera looked at her rather hungrily. “I prefer prices that allow me to continue to exist.”

____

_I am a dragon, and I will not be afraid._ But, the conclusion was still obvious. Elaena swallowed, her throat abruptly dry and painful. “What is the price?”

____

“Your blood, from time to time, that’s all, nothing more. It’s the blood that _once_ flowed in my veins. Now … Now there is a great deal of blood inside of me, and I can spend it for magic _easily,_ that is the power you see? You must understand that blood is really the foundation of all magic, not because of what it is but because it represents a measure of your life-force. As a creature of blood I, of course, take the blood of others to survive, and also have more easy and ready access to the blood of others. But I myself no longer have the blood affinities to Valyrian magic… Except who I drink from. And you are a Dragonlord. If you want to learn from me what I know, I must demonstrate it. There’s no other way. Your knowledge has a simple price. I won’t take much, don’t worry; we are kin in a world where Daenerys and I and you all have precious few left.”

____

Elaena shook her head slowly. “You make it as if I have no choice, Lady Quaithe.”

____

A laugh. “No, I just have your mark already. Come, let’s begin. That beast in the west will not like it, when it discovers that we know the contents of these books. Isn’t that enough for you?"

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Pebbleton is a town on Great Wyk, owned by House Merlyn.
> 
> 2\. In the books, Myranda Royce is the daughter of Lord Nestor Royce. It’s not entirely clear what her relation is to Bronze Yohn Royce, so we assume they are cousins. Mya Stone is a natural daughter of Robert Baratheon. Myranda’s first, elderly, husband had a heart attack while making love to her, since when she has lived as a very merry widow, taking a succession of lovers. She and Mya both befriended Sansa when she was living in the Vale as “Alayne Stone”, supposedly the natural daughter of Littlefinger. Up till now, Myranda has rather shut her eyes to the nature of Sansa’s government, enjoying her status as a highborn woman at a royal court, and still thinking of Sansa as the charming quick witted girl she knew in the Vale.
> 
> 3\. Sir Harold is Sir Harold Hardyng, Sweetrobin’s cousin and heir to the Vale. He’s a bit of a shit in his treatment of women. His first comment, on meeting Sansa, was to express disgust that Littlefinger's bastard should escort him to his chambers.
> 
> 4\. The chant is adapted from Psalm 91: 13. It was used in Constantinople to celebrate an emperor destroying his enemies. The Lion is Lannister, the direwolf Stark, the Merman Manderly, and the Huntsman Tarly.
> 
> 5\. That blood is the basis of all magic in this world seems fairly well inferred. 
> 
> 6\. We assume Barth would not fail to write down Princess Aerea's account of her sufferings, no matter how horrifying. He was too much of a man of letters not to, even if written in code and kept secretly.


	20. Paying the piper

Sansa woke from her dream, panting heavily. Myranda was still dead to the world, and she gently disengaged herself from her friend’s arms. She put on her woollen gown, and left the bedchamber, making for her study, so as to gather her thoughts. She poured herself a goblet of brandy, in order to steady her nerves while she thought. Dawn was starting to break. Was her dream just a nightmare, or was it a premonition? If the latter, then plainly, Jon had to die. If only she didn’t have to choose! Not for the first time, she cursed herself for her own ambition and folly. At heart, she knew very well that Daenerys would have confirmed her as Lady of Winterfell, and most likely Wardeness of the North, after making Jon her heir, had she only been loyal to her. She would have had almost all the power of a queen, if not the title. Nor, and she could be frank with herself now, would she have behaved any more gently towards the people of Kings Landing than the Dragon Queen, had she had the power to punish them. She had watched the bastards laugh and jeer as father was murdered; they had tried to rape and murder her; they had followed Cersei faithfully, even after she massacred hundreds at the Great Sept. They had picked a side, and had to reap the consequences; she had never dreamed of punishing the Northern soldiers for their actions, the day the city fell. They, and she, had much to avenge.

She heard a sharp, _tap, tap _, on the window to her study. Something was knocking against it. Intrigued, she opened the window, only to wish she hadn’t. A coal black raven rested on the sill, fixing her with one beady eye. Then HE spoke to her, in her mind. The brother who was not a brother.__

_I have shown you what will come to pass, unless you strike swiftly. You can expect no mercy from the Dragon Queen. Nor from the traitor who was our brother. The battle at sea is lost, but you can still prevent disaster, so long as you obey my instructions._

“I’m a Queen, I obey no one “ she replied, coolly.

Cold, mocking laughter stabbed at her. _You are Queen for just so long as it suits me. I own your Inquisition. Do not be a fool, sweet sister. Let me tell you what the Dragon Queen and Yara Greyjoy will do to you, should they capture you. _With evident relish, Bran set about describing a whole litany of tortures and sexual assaults that chilled her blood._ Once they have enjoyed you, they will offer your sweet body to their lieutenants. You will be begging them for death, long before they grant you that blessing. _he concluded.__

___So, the great fight at sea was lost. Daenerys would invade the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps, she should take her own life, using one of Wolkan’s poisons? Or even, just cut her wrists? Either would be preferable to the horrors that her enemies had planned for her._ _ _

_Banish that thought, sweet sister, continued the cold voice. The Night King was not the only ruler of the Dead. I can bring you back, if I wish. Perhaps in your own fair form. Or maybe in the form of a drooling hag, or pig. Or I might even feed your soul to the One who dwells in the utmost North. He hungers for souls. Yours would be a rare gift. A brim-full undead chalice, filled with horror, astonishment, and despair, his to feast upon throughout eternity. _A vision flashed through her mind, of a million souls, screaming across the centuries. She felt sick with fear.__

__"What do you want of me?", she asked, finally._ _

_Jon Snow must die. He seeks the Dragon Queen. He must not find her. You need not execute him publicly, but die he must. On no account must he be allowed to leave the North. A witch prevents me from seeing him clearly, but I believe he heads for White Harbour, seeking a ship that will take him East. Do you understand me?  
_

She nodded.

_There is more. The Northern savages move against us. You must lead your army North, beyond the Wall and destroy them. Do not concern yourself with Deepwood Motte. It is a sideshow. Once you have defeated the threat to the North, you may destroy the rebels at your leisure. Serve me well in this, and I shall permit you to retain your throne. Fail me, and I shall find another to rule the North. The Imp, for example. He regrets bitterly that he failed to claim his rights as your husband. If I raise him up as King in the North, I shall give you to him as his plaything. He has heard what the Beast of Bolton did to you. He yearns to do the same. Go now, and do not fail me._

Sansa returned to her bedchamber, in a daze, perceiving at last the full horror of service to the Three Eyed Raven. She had no doubt now, that her brother had died, and something else entirely had possessed his body. On top of all her problems, she had an eternity of torment to look forward to, as well. Myranda was waiting for her, awake now. She saw concern on her friend's face.

"What is it Sansa?"

"I think you must leave Winterfell. Robyn and Mya too, I don't think it's safe for you to remain here. I don't think it's safe for anyone to remain close to me."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm damned, Randa. I've made a bargain with some very evil powers, I can see that now. They gave me my crown, but ...they will want their due." Slowly, haltingly, she recounted first her dream, and then her encounter with the Three Eyed Raven. The other woman looked grave.

"He could be lying to you about his powers."

"Dare I take that risk?"

"Go to a Septon or Septa and seek absolution. There's no sin they won't absolve if the price is right, I can assure you, save one. I tell you, if you become a kinslayer, you will be cursing yourself in the eyes of gods and men. There's no way back from that. And, no, I'm not going to run away, and leave you to face this on your own. " She hugged Sansa tight.

The pair broke their fast together, then Sansa went to meet her counsellors, to give her commands. "I have been advised that a threat is gathering beyond the Wall. We shall march North; Deepwood Motte can wait. As for Jon Snow, I want him taken alive. I want to question him personally." _________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jon supped on his bowl of brown and horn of ale, in an obscure corner of the tavern. He had left Ghost and Longclaw with Val, and then made his way South. His hair and beard grown long, it had been easy enough for him to pose as a wildling, a dealer in skins. No one had recognised him as the King in the North, or almost no one. From time to time, he had an unpleasant sensation that he was being watched and followed; there was no concrete evidence for this, just a sense. He had learned to trust such senses. He had made enough coin on the way South to pay for his passage from White Harbour to Braavos. From there, he would seek out his former lover. From what he had heard, it seemed she was now sailing West. People talked of her invading the Seven Kingdoms as though it was a certain thing; there were rumours she’d won a huge battle in the South, although no one knew for certain. Still, he wanted to reach her first, before the realm plunged into a new round of civil war. He was due to meet an old smuggler friend of Ser Davos', the following dawn, at a cove a couple miles North of the city, who would take him East. Of course, trusting such a man was a big risk, but less so than taking a regular merchant vessel or passenger ship. He had little doubt that his sister's Inquisiton would be scrutinising the manifests and passenger lists of the regular vessels, and would view any inhabitant of Westeros travelling East with great suspicion.

The tavern was crowded. Not the worst in White Harbour, by any means, but not the best either, it lay a short distance outside the city walls. He doubted if a wildling would even be admitted to the better class establishments - good enough to fight the Dead, but certainly not good enough to merit any respect! The floor was beaten earth, covered with rushes, rather than stone flags. but at least they were fresh and clean. The common room was warmed by a firepit, with smoke escaping through a louver. As far as he could tell, those present were traders come to the fair that the city was hosting, or sailors. Unfortunately, a pair of drunks were actually toasting Daenerys in a neighbouring booth. Fuck it! They could only draw unwanted attention on everyone present. Everyone knew the Inquisiton had thousands of informants among the Northern population. Thankfully, the Innkeep came over, and told them sharply to quit the premises. His thoughts returned to Sansa. Not for the first time, he wondered what had turned her into a ruthless tyrant, feared across the North. Had the lure of a crown corrupted her, or had there always been real darkness in her heart. She must be desperate, now. Daenerys would show her no mercy. Probably, the two of them would die side by side, withering in Drogon’s flames. He sighed. Likely he would never know the answer. He got up and handed the Innkeep a silver dragon, enough for his meal and a night's lodging. He made his way to the stables, then climbed a ladder up to the sleeping platform above where the horses were kept. One of the stable lads had agreed to wake him, a couple of hours before dawn. He lay on a straw mattress, thankfully free of insects, wrapped his cloak around him, and gradually drifted off.

He woke with a start. Months spent camping in the wilderness had sharpened his senses. There were low voices below.

"Just cut his throat and have done with it" said one. "That puts an end to the threat."

"Orders are quite clear" replied another. "He's to be taken alive. They come from the Queen's Grace herself. if you want to defy *her*, then be my guest. You'll be spending the rest of your short life in Black Hag." Black Hag, the most notorious of Queen Sansa's holding camps. Even North of the Wall, it had acquired an infamous reputation.

"That's one cold-hearted bitch" said a third. "Say that again, and I'll have you on a charge" replied the leader.

"I meant it as a compliment. What does she want him for anyway?

"The Gods know. To put him to the question, to fuck him, maybe both, but orders are orders." One man began creeping up the ladder. Jon silently drew his dirk. He noticed too, a small unlit, oil lamp next to his mattress. That might be useful. As the man's head emerged from the gap, Jon lunged, driving the dagger through his throat, The man choked, and then dropped back down.

"Well done, Snow" called the leader, after a short silence. "There are four of us, and we can always get help from the Manderlys if we need it. We've orders to take you alive, but that doesn't mean we have to take you in one piece. We can take an eye or two, or hamstring you, if it'll make you biddable, and I'd like you to be biddable. So, come quietly. "

"I'm coming", called Jon. Quickly, he used his tinder to light the lamp, and then applied the flame to his straw mattress. Being dry, it went up like a torch. He grasped it by the unburnt end, then hurled it down through the gap, towards his assailants. There was a loud scream, followed by a cacophony of shrieks from the horses in their stalls, panicking at the fire. Jon leapt down the ladder, noting as he landed, that one man was already on fire. Another was dazed, and he kneed him hard, in the crotch, sending him sprawling. That left the leader and one other, daggers in hand, circling to take him.

"Alright you cunt" snarled the Inquisitor. "Have it your own way. Not even the Queen will blame us, because you resisted arrest!" They were skilled knifemen, blocking his attacks, covering for each other, and pressing him back towards the stalls containing the terrified horses, even as the stables began to fill with smoke, as straw and hay caught light. The man he’d kneed in the bollocks was now on his knees; he'd be rejoining the fight in a minute. Time to end it now. Reaching behind him, he unbolted the first stall, darting aside as the maddened beast dashed for safety, knocking down his assailants. Jon unbolted the other stalls, and the horses escaped through the open doorway, while the beams and joists of the stable caught fire. Jon followed, running into the night, choking on the smoke, uncaring of the men left in the blazing building. They had made their choice, and must now live, or more likely die, with it.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Tyrion was a worried man, desperately seeking a way out, even as he rode into main courtyard at Sunspear. Back to Dorne. Broiling hot as usual, and surrounded by a stinking, hate-filled populace. He loathed the fucking place, but the King’s orders had been quite clear.

On his return to Kings Landing, he had heard the grim news. The battle of the Dornish Capes was lost, along with much of the army in Dorne. In the circumstances, being re-appointed to the Small Council seemed a hollow victory. Lord Brynden Tully had been dismissed, and Bronn was now appointed as Hand of the King. The news continued to be bad. The Dragon Queen's forces were steadily occupying the Stepstones. King Brandon had seemed agitated, not his usual impassive self. Something about the battle had plainly shaken him, over and above the fact of defeat. The King had commanded him, "Set Dorne ablaze." He did not have anything like sufficient men left to pacify Dorne, but that did not matter now. The King had explained that at all costs, Daenerys Targaryen must be kept from heading North. She must be drawn into battle in the South, and the best means of doing so was to slaughter civilians. A fresh army was being made ready at Kings Landing, and would join him in Dorne when the time came.

He dismounted, and made his way to his chambers in the palace. This was an oasis of coolness and calm, but unlike the Water Gardens, a few miles down the coast, this was a secure fortress too, About the only secure place left in the country. Following the losses in the battle, both Starfall and Godsgrace had been retaken by the rebels. He poured himself wine from a pitcher, on entering his solar. As he drank, so he thought. He was, he knew now, wholly King Brandon’s creature, to be used or discarded as the king saw fit. Not the master of events he had imagined himself, when first he sought out, and then started betraying, Daenerys Targaryen. Think Tyrion, think! he told himself. There had to be some way of escaping if the worst happened, and she prevailed. Oh gods, there was every chance she would, now. By all accounts, she had more than a thousand ships, their numbers augmented by those captured at sea. A close blockade was strangling the Seven Kingdoms’ trade with the East. It could only be a matter of time before her soldiers landed, and the Realm erupted in revolt.

A servant cleared his throat. He looked up. “My lord, your deputy commanders await.” “Show them in.”

Three men entered. Ser Aemon Estermont, and two of Bronn’s people, who had accompanied him from Kings Landing. Raffington, nicknamed “the sweetling”, as vicious a thug as one could hope to meet, and Utt, a renegade septon and lover of small boys. They helped themselves to wine.

"Gentlemen, we have our orders" he began. "We are to draw the Dragon Whore into battle in Dorne. A fresh army is being assembled at Kings Landing, to join us in this fight. We must be merciless towards the inhabitatants, beginning with the Shadow City. Over twenty thousand people live here. We are to kill half, men, women and children, without distinction. All of their possessions are to go to the troops. The people of this land, so to speak, are the bait. We use them to trap her here. Is that clear."

The three nodded, eyes lighting up at the prospect of murder, rape, and robbery. "Your will, my lord" they responded as one, before filing out of the room.

* * *

At Tyrosh, Jon’s ship arrived like any other common merchant. The island’s harbour, however, was packed to the gills with ships. Ships laying at the wharves, ships laying at anchor in the harbour, ships drawn up on the shore, and even ships laying at the roadsted, while small boats worked cargoes from them to the docks. Jon had never seen that many ships before in his life, even when he arrived at Dragonstone to treat with Daenerys. Between the merchants and the warships, he thought there must be at least fifteen hundred he could see, perhaps two thousand. He was no uneducated rube, but it was still astonishing, and it was obvious that Tyrosh was quartering a substantial Army and sheltering a tremendous naval force, and huge quantities of food were coming from every part of Essos to supply it.

This was the Army that had Dany had built. This was the _Empire_ that Dany had built. And still, somehow, they were linked together in their need to face and confront the darkness in the world. Jon took confidence in that as they landed ashore, and he passed uncomfortably, through the throngs of workers around the docks. He didn’t have the slightest idea of how he would actually reach out to Daenerys, now that he was here. It was certainly fraught with danger, and he had to keep himself alive to serve the cause of the Wildlings and face the threat of the monstrous Great Other in the North; the encounter still put irons in his soul. He may not care if he lived or died otherwise, he told himself—he really felt he sincerely meant that—but this was the last cause greater than himself that mattered, perhaps the only one that ever had.

Tyrosh had the squalor of any city, though less than many others. There were baths and sewers as there were not in Westerosi cities. People thronged to them, and with a jerk, Jon realised that most of them were freed slaves, now bathing in places where only citizens had before—though most masters kept their slaves clean, it was in far less dignified of a way. There were vendors everywhere, for prepared meals sold from shops in the bottoms of tenements, and all kinds of trinkets. He was able, after some haggling, to get himself a portion of some kind of fried bread, drenched in olive oil, which was what passed as a simple and hearty meal for the poor, but he was left with the idea that perhaps he had paid more in Westerosi currency than he really ought to have.

People gawked at him, that was as plain as day.

Jon stiffened, and wondered if simply arriving and trying to be inconspicuous had been a good idea. Perhaps he never could be, as an exotic foreigner here.

The crowd in the streets was parting, and Jon turned in the direction of the commotion. He could see a column of cavalry moving with decision toward him, and that a woman was leading it.

His teeth clenched when he recognised who it was.

_Yara Greyjoy._

She held her hand in the air as a signal for her men to rein up. As they did, they levelled the crossbow pistols they were carrying—at least twenty of them. Then she dismounted, her hand on the hilt of a sword. “Jon Snow. We saw you arrive, and I have been told by Her Majesty to grant you one term: Surrender your weapons to me, and you have my word and by leave of Her Majesty, Her word, that you will at least live long enough to see her.” She sneered, sandy brown hair blown back, facing blazing with contempt for him. “Honestly, I’d rather you say no, you fucking traitor.”

Jon reached down and removed his dagger, with the hilt toward Yara. She stepped forward and took it, and handed it up to one of her Sergeants. Then spun around and grabbed Jon, dragging him in close. He staggered in surprise, as her eyes flared.

“You fucking monster. You have no idea what you did to her,” she growled, and aggressively patted him down. She glared at his dagger. “If this is the one you stabbed her with, fuck my word, I’m going to kill you where you stand.”

“Gods no, no, Tyrion took it…”

“One thing I can promise you,” Yara said after a glare of pure hatred flashed in her eyes at the mention of Tyrion’s name, “is that if you die, it won’t be the worst death possible. We’re saving that for him.”

“...Just nearly,” she added, turning him around, letting another of her men lash ropes around his wrists.

She returned to her horse, and Jon was forced to endure the indignity of walking behind the troop of horses with his wrists bound with rope, through the rest of the streets of Tyrosh, up to the Archon’s palace. There were at least a thousand Unsullied on guard. The column of horses brought him right up to the entrance to the audience chamber, and there he saw Grey Worm, also glaring at him with undisguised hatred.

Grey Worm searched him again. “The kindness you are being shown is too good for you; it shows only how great Her Majesty is.”

Jon’s heart ached, because he knew it was true. _I should die…_

Grey Worm roughly searched him, and then hauled him around. “March or Die, scum.”

Jon carried on alone, in the Archon’s old audience hall, now appropriated for the Queen—no, the _Empress—_ while she was resident in the city. Two companies of Unsullied lined his path, one on each side. Ahead, She sat. Gleaming silver like the dawn sky, shining like an angel instead of a woman, with only her outer-cloak in Targaryen colours to remind who she was, gown and mask all silver…

Fire Priestess glaring hate on one side, inscrutable Asshai Shadowbinder on the other side. A flamboyant Tyroshi man—no doubt the Queen’s Viceroy in Volantis and commander of her armies, Daario Naharis—staring with contempt at Jon, hand on the hilt of his sword.

A young woman of purely Valyrian features, at the Red Priestess’ side, in half-armour and her cloak _also_ in Targaryen colours.

 _What?_ Jon didn’t know what to think of that. But the spears lowered in front of him.

“On your knees, and beg leave to approach.”

Jon dropped down to his knees. He was no true member of the Free Folk to quibble over it. “Your Grace, the..”

“Your _Majesty!_ ” The girl corrected sharply. “You speak to the Empress of Valyria and all Ghis!”

“Your Majesty,” he amended. His father and family would have said it pretentious, an eastern ornamentalism. But wasn’t that precisely what the Targaryen were, a conquest dynasty out of the East? Wasn’t that, at its heart, their foreign ways and ideas, what his sister had feared? What he had feared? _Incest…_

Her voice echoed, and each word brought pain to his heart. “Why have you come, Jon Snow? Did you seek death so badly?”

“I – yes – I … I no, I have a mission, Your Majesty.” He felt completely at a loss for words, now that he faced Her.

“Let Jon Snow approach half the distance to the throne,” Daenerys commanded. The spears rose. Tap, tap, rise you fool, they said with the grinding of their butts to their marble.

Jon rose and stepped out half the distance. He didn’t need to be prodded this time, he dropped to his knees. “Your Majesty.”

“You haven’t told me what your mission is. Speak.”

“I needed to see you, I...”

“To kill me again? Do you think this Imperial military is so easily stopped? That my administrative apparatus is so easily crushed? I will admit to a mistake last time. I didn’t have the experience to create the chambers and offices and administrative rules for organisation of an Army, the things that keep a State together. But I learned this lesson, and now it’s too late.” Her head shifted slightly, light glinting on the silver mask. “There’s even an heir, and her written instructions in the event of my demise call for the completion of the conquest of Westeros.” Her voice went harsh, and cold. “Kill me again, Jon, and all you will do is guarantee that there won’t be anyone inclined to mercy standing between this Army and the whole continent.”

His eyes jerked to the young Valyrian woman. “Aren’t we the last Targaryens left?”

“Don’t _use that name! I don’t give you permission!_ Rhaegar’s marriage was not recognised publicly and not approved by the King! It is invalid under the law of Gods and Men, with no witnesses to his divorce and no witnesses to his marriage, only the one who executed it. And even if it were, you chose which family you wished to belong to , Jon, and it wasn’t mine. You don’t get to choose another, just because it turned out badly for you. You are a bastard, and you exist at my sufferance! In fact, Elaena is a direct line descendant of Princess Saera Targaryen, daughter of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator, and her son by a Triarch of Volantis. I legitimised her and she is a thousand times the Targaryen you are. Another important lesson for a ruler: If you can’t _have_ children, _make_ them. She’s _mine_ to _make mine._ ” The words echoed in silence across the chamber. Only the inner court and the Unsullied were there. Nobody would ever hear word of the outburst outside of them. “What is your mission?” She asked, her voice calm again. “Speak truthfully and clear, if you’re capable of doing so.”

“To seek help against the Great Other in the furthest north,” Jon answered. “At any price, my own life included. There is a great power there, which hungers for the souls of Men. I fear it is what rules King Bran and opposes you. But we have an ally against it and I need to tell you what must be done to truly defeat it. The Night’s King was only one aspect of its power and it plays all mortals against each other, to feed on the ruination of bloody war. This power manipulated all the events of the War, toward his own ends.”

Yara entered, bearing his dagger. “A moment,” Daenerys murmured. Yara walked to the throne, dipped her head, and presented it to Daenerys, who took it, and the two of them spoke briefly in Valyrian, which Jon had too ill of a grasp to fully make out.

He could just make out Dany closing her eyes behind her mask. “Approach to the base of the throne, that we may speak plainly.” Yara stepped away, to join the others.

He rose, walked the rest of the distance, and knelt again. “Your Majesty, we need your help to keep the North free from this monster. I saw a door to a million stars, a place of dark power in the mountains beyond the Valley of the Thenn, where a black rock is a portal to a power that can crush the minds of men. Even the Night’s Queen stands against it… That legendary creature, a woman of ice, was part of a people enslaved to its power, but is no friend of it. The Night’s King took her…”

“Another Crow who wants dominion over women, just like you, Jon?”

“Dany, this is the fate of the –”

She cut him off. “Call me that name just one more time, and I'll have your lips sewn together, with a live scorpion placed in your mouth.”

Jon froze. There was an edge of hardness in the voice, absolute sincerity. _You did this to her. You made her the kind of person willing to say such things. You did._

“Why shouldn’t I put you to death?” Daenerys mused, “and go find this Night’s Queen myself? Can anyone here speak to the truth of what he says?”

Jon saw the Shadowbinder reach up and, undoing a few straps, remove the full wooden mask, hood falling back as she did. Targaryen silver-platinum-blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders, and everyone looked. A thin and gaunt woman’s face was revealed, which was still beautiful, though not the ravishing beauty of old. The glamour on the eyes fell away—they were blue and green, mismatched heterochrome. She knelt and faced Daenerys.

“What he speaks, Your Majesty, is true entire. The Great Other is in the north, and it has manipulated these events in an effort to destroy you and the House Targaryen, which only moved to Westeros, and conquered it, because of a vision Aegon had of that necessity, the necessity to come to Westeros and face this darkness, and defeat it, for the survival of the whole world. It is our destiny to completely destroy this power. We must face it.

“We,” Daenerys repeated, looking to her in sharp fascination. Jon couldn’t help it – he thought there was some old bard’s story, on the tip of his tongue…

“I am Shiera Seastar, Your Majesty, the daughter of Aegon the Fourth. The Great Other took the love of my life, Lord Brynden Rivers, and twisted him and possessed his husk and used him to further his schemes. I am the blood of your blood, and I serve you, not merely because we are the last of our line, but because I greatly desire vengeance against that creature that took him, and the hour of my vengeance is at hand.”

“You look quite lovely for a woman of a hundred and thirty,” Daenerys remarked mildly.

“I suffer my own trials, Your Majesty.”

“No doubt we will hear more. You were loyal, and provided good counsel, throughout, while asking for nothing, Lady Shiera,” Daenerys observed. “Now you ask me for revenge, but only against a plain threat to my existence, the true power behind the puppet these fools put on my throne. How must it be done?”

“The old magic of Valyria I know, and have begun to teach to Princess Elaena. It is this power, the power of the dragon, of change, of fire, of passion, of rebirth and regeneration, that the Great Other fears the most. In Fire and Ice shall you have your victory. The alliance with the Night’s Queen is the path forward. This man, for all his faults, brings you the key to the victory that your great ancestor the Conqueror first set our family on a path to win. It frees your house from the chains of destiny.”

“Then, when the time is right, we will go to the North.” Daenerys’ eyes flicked to the older woman. “Blood of my blood. Lady Shiera Targaryen.”

Shiera bowed deeply, closing her eyes as red tears leaked them from them. Jon knew she had to be a fell sorceress, but as with any Northern man he still stiffened and paled at the prospect of what that meant.

One could almost feel the sneer directed at him. “In this court, monsters are judged by their conduct, not their nature,” Daenerys observed trenchantly. “By that standard, you are much more of a monster than she is. So, Jon Snow, I grant you your life. You are a guest of my court, for as long as I deem fit. Princess Elaena?”

“Your Majesty?”

“You shall arrange his guard and care. Treat him as a guest until I order it otherwise.”

“Your Majesty.”

“Now, let us come together, and see how we may smash this monster of black stone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Myranda’s transactional attitude towards the gods was quite common among medieval people. Hence the quip of Rodrigo Borgia, “the Lord desireth not the death of a sinner but rather that he live - and pay,” and Tetzel's rhyme "As soon as gold in the coffer rings, the soul from purgatory springs." When people were kidnapped by brigands for ransom, the ransom agreement typically provided for a priest to give the kidnappers absolution.
> 
> 2\. Black Hag is a hill on the English/Scottish border. Like many local place names, it testifies to a bloody past. An excellent account of the region’s history is given by G M Fraser in The Steel Bonnets. The Border Clans are very much Martin’s inspiration for the Mountain Clans if the North.
> 
> 3\. In the books, Raffington “Raff the Sweetling”, was a lieutenant of Ser Gregor Clegane. A paedophile, he was seduced by Arya in Braavos, before she cut his throat. Utt was a defrocked septon who served Vargo Hoat, and who liked to rape little boys, before getting his fellows to whip him, as penance. Beric Dondarrion hanged him.


	21. The Royal Command

Arya had been placed in charge of a division of three thousand infantry, freedmen from Volantis. The formal rank she had been given, Chilliarch, was unheard of in the Seven Kingdoms, but familiar enough to the Volantenes. She and they had been kept out of the front line, since the capture of New Ghis, but had now been earmarked to take Driftmark, whose population had been cruelly persecuted for their pro-Targaryen loyalties. She had no qualms about fighting King Brandon; not only did the man lead a monstrous regime, she was almost certain now that her brother was dead. Something else had possessed his body. So engrossed was she with training with her men, that it was only a day after the audience with the Queen, that she learned that Jon Snow had come to Tyrosh.

She had been shocked, then alarmed. Surely Daenerys would execute him on the spot! It turned out she had not. Instead, he was held under guard in the Archon’s palace. She had sought permission from Elaena to visit him, and then hurried to his chamber. Two Unsullied stood guard outside, but admitted her without question. Gods, he looked rough! Bearded, unkempt, gaunt. Still, she embraced him, delighted that he still lived. They caught up with each other’s news. They talked at length of the danger in the North.

“I’m sad for Bran, but relieved as well. I know for certain now, I’m not fighting my brother. I’ll have no qualms killing whatever possessed his body,” she commented, at last. They talked about the liberation of the slaves for a time.

“You did right, Arya, “ he said, finally. “I can see that. She’s freed millions across the East. And now a senior officer! You’ve done well for yourself. “

“The Empress wants me to rule the North, too, when this is over.”

He smiled. “That’s a relief. At least there’ll be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“No thanks to any of us. “ He winced. There was an awkward silence, then, Jon asked her,

"Why does Daenerys wear a silver mask, now?"

Arya frowned. "I have never asked her, and I would never dream of it. I can guess, though. It's 1,500 miles to fly to from Kings Landing to Volantis. That takes time. The weather there is much hotter. No doubt Drogon encountered storms on the way, and had to rest. I imagine she had begun to decay by the time Kinvara brought her back. I don't think that decay can be reversed. She probably thinks her true appearance would upset people. Or it hurts her to know what she looks like now." Jon sunk his head in hands, before finally looking up again.

“Now I know what Yara Greyjoy meant. She said to me "You fucking monster. You don't know what you've done. " I was a complete fool. I’ve had plenty of time to work out where I went wrong. “

“No. You take all the blame on yourself, the whole time. You made mistakes, but I know I’m not a good person. I’ve a great deal of blood on my hands. I fed a man his own sons in a pie, and laughed when I saw him bleeding to death in front of me. I made Black Walder watch while I dismembered his brother; I wanted him to know what was coming. I started with his eyes and worked my way down from there. Then I poisoned his whole family. I didn’t care if any of them were innocent or guilty. I gouged out a man’s eyes, and slowly cut him to pieces. I loved inflicting pain and suffering on my enemies. You’ve never done anything like that! “

“You had reasons, Arya. They were evil men.”

“”Everywhere she goes, evil men die and we cheer her for it”. Isn’t that what the Imp said to you? And, there it is. You stop me and Sansa from taking the blame for our own actions. You make excuses for us when you shouldn’t. We behaved dreadfully, towards Daenerys and towards you. We knew she loved you. We found out she agreed to come to our aid without insisting you bent the knee. And, still we hated her. I think it was a kind of madness. Sansa was mad with ambition, Bran was possessed, and I thought our family was the only one that counted. We became the Lannisters. “

“I was the one who murdered her, Arya, I can't escape that,” he said, grimly.

“I encouraged you to do so. Sansa kicked off a conflict between the two of you. But, there’s worse.”

“Go on.”

“Varys tried to poison her. We think that Sansa was party to the plot.” Jon sighed.

“I wish I could say I don’t believe it. But, I do.”

“What happened to our sister, Jon? When I came back to Winterfell, I discovered she’d fed Ramsay Bolton to dogs. That’s what I would have done, quite happily, but Sansa? Never. Then, she just got worse and worse. I’ve met people she sold into slavery. Northmen, people from the Iron Islands. Father hanged slavers. I've heard she's set up an Inquisition, who spy on her subjects, and drag people into dungeons and torture chambers. Sansa was good and kind and sweet. What happened to her?”

“And what will happen to her? Daenerys won’t show mercy to her, or the Imp, or the rest.”

“I’ve seen men impaled, and burned. Men who committed dreadful crimes against the slaves. It didn’t bother me. They deserved it. Her enemies in the Seven Kingdoms are just as bad.”

“And is that what you want for Sansa? Would you just look on and do nothing, if she was impaled, or flayed, or burned at the stake? Can’t you intercede for her? We know how she suffered at the hands of Cersei, and Littlefinger, and the Beast. That changed her. They made her what she is.”

“Daenerys has forgiven me, and she respects me. But, I’m not part of her inner circle. I’m quite close to Princess Elaena, I’ll talk to her. If it comes to it, I’d kill Sansa myself, rather than let her suffer a dreadful death. There are poisons I could give her. Let’s be realistic though, the very best our sister can hope for is to be kept under close guard in a castle for the rest of her life, or made to join the Silent Sisters. And, I’m not sticking my neck out for scum like the Imp, or Stokeworth, or Tarly!” she added fiercely.

“I wouldn’t ask you to. Bronn Stokeworth is a thief and a murderer. But Sam? That hurts. I thought Sam was my best friend at the Wall. I stuck up for him. I hated his father for what he did to him. But, his father was actually right about him. He’s a mean, vicious, coward. At least Lord Randyll and Dickon died bravely, by all accounts. Sam never really cared about any claim I might have to the throne; he just wanted to get his own back on Daenerys. And, he was a liar too. You can't annul a marriage in secret, something he was surely quite well aware of. He never offered a word of comfort to me in Kings Landing - just voted to kick me into exile. And then, he just ignored all his oaths to the Nights Watch and the Citadel, taking Gilly as his paramour, and becoming Grand Maester, even though he never even qualified as Maester. In the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms, Gilly is his whore, and his children are bastards, but I doubt if he cares. He's a selfish, devious, piece of shit. As for the Imp, I was a fool to believe a word he ever said. He never served anyone other than himself. Almost every word he told me was a lie, when he talked me into committing murder. I won’t shed any tears for him. I’d happily watch Yara Greyjoy give him the terrible death she has planned for him.”

They were silent for a while, then Arya said. “I must go now. I’ll visit you every day. Oh, and one thing. I’ll send you a barber and a change of clothes. Make yourself look presentable at least.” They laughed together, and then she left.

* * *

_The only good thing about Castle Black is the breakfasts_ , thought Robyn Manderly, as he devoured a plateful of boar sausages, with fried bread. The castle was half a ruin, and the Nights Watch plainly on its last legs now, membership down to a few hundred. Barely a hundred would ride with the army, once they marched North. Two thousand horse, and five thousand foot had come from Winterfell. With contingents from Karhold and Last Hearth, there were close to ten thousand. More than sufficient to destroy the savages, North of the Wall. He smiled up at his Queen and lover, watching as she sat conversing on the top table with Ser Jon Flint, the Lord Commander, and Mors Umber, who would command the army in battle. All cold dignity in public, yet so wanton and unrestrained behind closed doors. He'd never boasted to anyone about their tryst, but it was still common knowledge among his fellow squires and officers, whatever Sansa might imagine, making him the object of some mostly good-humoured teasing. He’d been able to reply in kind once Lady Myranda Royce, a woman of insatiable appetites, began working her way through their ranks. His uncle, Lord Wendel Manderly, was well aware of the affair too, urging him to marry the Queen, the last time they had met. King consort would be quite the promotion for the younger son of a younger son. In fact, they had discussed marriage, only for Sansa to express concern she'd be risking his life. She was happy enough to agree, but only once the outcome of this war was known.

He finished his breakfast, and left the Shield Hall. The bitter cold of the Long Night had abated, but the air was still chill and keen. A thick frost lay on the roofs of the outbuildings, and his breath steamed in the air. It felt good to inhale the cold, pure, air of the North. When he was much younger, his uncle had brought him to Kings Landing for a year; he’d hated that hot, damp city, reeking of shit and unwashed humanity, even from five miles away. He stared up at the vast ice wall, blue in the morning light. Like others, he had been winched up to the top of it, to be dazzled by the view across The Haunted Forest. He wondered if it would ever be repaired. Once the army finished the wildlings, he doubted if there would be any threat left from the North. No doubt there would be traitors in their ranks, men who had fled from his lover's rule. They deserved no mercy. Sansa was a good Queen, kind, just, and gracious, and those who defied her brought their fate on themselves. He couldn't say he was entirely happy with the idea of selling rebels as slaves, but Sansa needed the money to pay her soldiers and to import food for her people. It wasn’t as if she was being selfish. As he walked towards the King's Tower, he saw Myranda coming out of it, and greeted her.

"Queen Sansa seems much happier, now" he remarked. "Your idea was a good one." Myranda had discussed the Queen's encounter with the Three Eyed Raven with him. Like the Royces, his family adhered to the Faith, and he had summoned a biddable Septon from White Harbour to attend the Queen. The man had proved very useful to family members who had got into trouble, in the past. For a substantial consideration, he had granted absolution to the Queen for her actions, cheering her mood greatly. She had shown her gratitude to Robyn with enthusiasm, in her bedchamber. They talked about Sansa for a while, then she asked.

"When do we march North?"

"Two days hence. But, I'll be riding out with the Rangers today, to Whitetree. " Scouts and outriders had already ridden into the Haunted Forest; as far as they could tell, the wildlings were gathering at the First of the First Men, a hundred and fifty miles to the North. Still, they needed to be careful for ambushes. A careless army might easily be cut to bits in the forest. This was the first time he'd ever ridden beyond the Wall, and he was excited at the prospect.

"Keep safe," she replied. "You know it would break the Queen's heart if anything happened to you."

A couple of hours later, he rode out of the tunnel, which led through the Wall, heading for the forest which was just a mile away. There were a couple of hundred riders. Robyn wore a mail shirt and half-helm, and a warm cloak. For several hours, they rode down forest paths, He noted the forest was filled with wild birds and game, which fled from their approach. On any other occasion, it would have been a fine day for a hunt. He knew there were boar in the forest too, although they had the sense to stay well out of their way. Eventually, they reached Whitetree in late afternoon. There were no more than a dozen houses, and a sheepfold. As expected, the village was abandoned. They dismounted and prepared their camp. He was fortunate, if that was the word, to be allocated one of the hovels, with a couple of the other squires. The place was bare, primitive, the floor of beaten earth. Nothing remotely resembling a privy of course, which was just typical of the savages. No doubt they just shit themselves where they sat.

He wandered out, staring at the vast white weirwood tree, which gave the village its name. The Northern religion gave him the chills, this tree as much as anything. It had a man's face carved into the trunk, which glared at him redly. Looking closer, he saw a hollow within the tree. There were bones there, human bones, he realised with a start. Old folk tales of human beings being strung up in these trees, with the bloody cross cut in them; of men and women laid on altars before them, their ribs smashed apart and their lungs drawn out like eagles' wings, or herded into giant wicker effigies in distant glades, on Beltane Eve, before being set alight, stirred uneasily in his mind. With dawning horror, he realised that the bones must have been placed there recently. The hollow in the tree was stained with what looked like very fresh blood. For the first time, he realised this was no adventure. There were secrets in this forest, Melanudrigill in the old tongue, that it might be best for men not to know. Who knew what awful powers the wildlings could call upon to aid them in their fight? He realised now that he might be in a place of deadly danger.

* * *

The scene in Tyrosh was one that had been repeated many times before in this campaign, though now, with Elaena as the one arriving in dirty and dusty armour to bow before her Empress, it was a sign of how much the Crown Princess had grown. “Your Majesty. Forgive me. I came directly from my ship when I received the herald.” But, it was an informal setting, in the Solar of the Archon’s Palace in Tyrosh, not the audience hall.

“My handmaidens will make you comfortable,” Daenerys answered, and sent for several to help Elaena out of her armour, and get in dressed in a more proper Valyrian woman’s _stola._ Tea, brought at great expense from the Yi-Ti lands, was put out; Elaena indulged in few luxuries, as Daenerys did not approve, but one that quickened the mind was acceptable to both of them, though Elaena had never seen Daenerys drink it.

Elaena had never seen Daenerys drink anything at all, in fact, and sometimes, that bothered her, an unsettling fact as she continued her magical education with Quaithe—with _Lady Shiera._ “I hope you are well, Your Majesty,” she offered as she sat.

“As well as I can be in the circumstances. This will be an unpleasant conversation for both of us.” Daenerys dismissed her handmaids and then began to remove her mask. “I will owe you looking at my face while I ask you to do this.”

“Your Majesty?”

“Elaena, I will be honest with you as I can be honest with few, now, as so many of those I cared about are cold in the ground, and from my experience, it’s best they stay that way.”

The younger Valyrian flinched at the reminder, but faced her sovereign, eyes to eyes. The breeze fluttered in slightly from the portico which ran around the sides of the tower in which the Solar stood. The view was amazing, but she didn’t much think about it at the moment.”

“Elaena, when I was a girl, i understand that I had nothing of my family. Just a brother who I have been told, grew more and more abusive as the years went on. I was sold in marriage, and not a brideprice in an honest marriage, but a pure diplomatic manoeuvre, to a Dothraki Khal, a man I can scarcely remember. By the customs of the Dothraki, being a wife meant being raped from a young age. And I grew out of that to understand why it’s so hard for women to challenge the way they’re treated by men. There is a natural affection you develop for those you are close to, even when they rule you as a Lord and Master. The ambivalence to liberation of the house-slave and the wife are linked, I think. That is how I came to see the equivalency between myself and the slaves of the Ghiscari cities. So you see, I had nothing. But I desperately wanted to know more about my family, I wanted to understand them, I wanted… To be loved, as my brother never could.”

“I love you. _Millions_ love you.”

“And you are as family to me, now, I am thankful for that. Yara, Daario, even Lady Shiera, family. Loyal supporters like Kinvara and Grey Worm—I have this, but still, my mother, there is…” Her voice choked with emotion. “My mother. I am all that is left of her on this world. I have learned so much of my family, and truth be told, I am somewhat ashamed of my father, and my older brother—Rhaegar in taking Lyanna Stark caused most of his own misfortune. But my mother… I am all that is left of her, and when she is gone, there will be nothing of her left. And I regret that I could not be there to heal my father, as foolish as it would be to try, or remonstrate Rhaegar, and show true affection for him as a sister to an older brother. They are all gone. They have passed into the dust of memory. When I leave this world, all that was of them will be gone.”

At that lament, Elaena felt herself softly weeping. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I …”

“You _are_ a Targaryen. You are a descendant of a Princess of the House, and of the pure blood of Old Valyria. Since I have twice lost the ability to bear children, first by curse and the second by death and resurrection, I have absolutely no regret of leaving my thrones to you. It’s a triumph, spitting in the face of those who sought to destroy us. The Triple Dragon will long rule. But my mother? I have thought about this, and thought about this.” Daenerys caught Elaena’s eyes and held it firmly. “And there is a possibility. The vessel is a very poor one, but he is not like father, which I suppose is a mark in his favour. The blood of my parents and grandparents, of our line of the house, which ruled after Princess Saera chose to flee east for her freedom, this blood does remain in one person. And I am told by Kinvara that though he, also, has been resurrected, that because it happened swiftly and in the dead of winter in the north, that his body, his natural functions, are intact as mine are not.” Her lips curled with anger and envy.

“Oh God. You mean Jon Snow.” Elaena’s expression wilted, she felt a sudden dread, of knowing exactly where this was going, and not liking it at all. “Your Majesty, he is a _vile_ character, superficially manly, but in truth having neither the strength and firmness of a man nor the sensibility and perseverance of a woman. He is easily led, and though, true, he has kept quiet and obeyed my instructions while under my care as you instructed when he arrived, to have him around a court… Your Majesty, I _cannot marry him._ There are millions of better men in the world, I’d sooner have one of many officers of our realms who were once slaves as my Prince Consort and Husband than that murderous, stupid, easily duped brute! He is the sort of man who remains silent, pretending to know what he’s doing, while in fact just waiting for the last advisor to speak, so he can adopt their idea as his own!”

“First of all, I don’t care who your husband is but I advise you to have him do absolutely nothing when it comes to ruling the whole realm. Give him a comfortable sinecure like command of a fleet, so that he can have his pride, but administer the realm yourself. A Queen Regnant should be a Queen Regnant, and an Empress Regnant, all the moreso,” Daenerys answered with a soft grin. But her eyes were still serious. “Second, it’s not about _marrying_ him. I have accrued all of this power, and people say I am Azor Ahai. I suppose, at this point, that they are right. So, I would be astonished if someone who is twice Empress, and Azor Ahai, cannot make bastards into royal heirs by decrees, and make it stick. If I cannot do this, then all power is a farce and a comedy. Keep him as your prisoner, Elaena. I just want you to _lay_ with him. To take him. To _use_ him.” Her face twisted into anger. “He is guilty of so many things, do not bother to feel a pang of regret. Many is the woman who has been made to take to bed with a man, purely for the sake of her blood, myself included. Take him, use him. Get pregnant by him. But I absolutely forbid you to marry him, on the pain of being disowned from the inheritance of the realms. However, your children by him will be, however weak and inadequate and unworthy of that name he himself is, the Blood of the Dragon, and I will make them your trueborn heirs by dint of my power. Give my mother a legacy, Elaena.”

Elaena swallowed. “Your Majesty, I love Maekar, in Lys. I would gladly see my bastards made legitimate by your hand to rule, what better than to be an Empress of the Free, I know how few of my subjects are true-born, because of the vileness of the custom of slavery, I would gladly have bastards for heirs, in truth, the word has no power for me. But I wish to marry the man I love.”

“He is of no account at the moment,” Daenerys answered. “It would be hard to justify such a marriage, except for the symbolism it represents, of raising someone up from a low background. However, I can give him a post as an officer, and if he proves himself in the administration—perhaps even of this city, or of Myr, then, it could be most easily arranged. In the meantime, you are a free woman, you have made no promise to him. Laying with Snow will not interfere. He surely must already be prepared for the prospect, as the heir to two Empires, that you must marry someone else.”

“Well, yes, but… Your Majesty, I don’t want that beast inside of me.” Her eyes were those of a teenager, who hadn’t quite finished growing up herself, just as Daenerys had been, and was now confronted with the fact that she had to, sooner than she wanted to.

“Take him however you please. Give him no choice in the matter. Do what you will with him, Elaena,” Daenerys answered, her eyes like blazing pits of intensity. “But squeeze what remains of my family out of him. That is what I demand. _Take it_ from him. It is all he is good for. Milk him for the blood of the dragon as if he were a cow in a stall. I haven’t a care. Do it however you please. But do it. I must, I _must_ not let my line die out.”

Daenerys could not quite bring herself to make it a command, Elaena could tell as much. But it was one, nonetheless. She would do worse than disobey her if she refused. She would _disappoint_ this woman. And Elaena could not bear it. _In some old and lascivious Valyrian book, there must be something on the art of how a woman rapes a man,_ she thought idly, dark and angry that she was being controlled in this, but also no longer doubting what her answer would be. “Of course, Your Majesty. Of course I will do it.”

“I know you are not happy, but think about how he will feel.”

Elaena laughed, and then squared herself up, draining the last of her tea. “You are going to give me three Empires, when the Lord of Light finally calls you back. This is all you ask me to do? It is a small measure of revenge, for all the many years of wrongs to womankind. Thank you, Your Majesty.” She rallied herself. “May I go, then?”

“You may.” A pause. “Do not wait, Elaena. Who knows how long until that idiot manages to get himself killed again.”

She couldn’t help it, it made Elaena laugh as she rose, bowed, and departed. It provided at least a minute of levity. And then, it motivated her as she made haste to the rooms that Shiera had set up, filled with bubbling potions, where she kept court during the day, when the sun outside left her unable to leave, and vulnerable.

“You look, and feel, discomfited,” the elder undead woman remarked. “You came straight to the Palace from the docks, and, I understand, to the Empress’ solar. Something is a-miss?”

Elaena couldn’t bear to hold it in or soften the words at all. “God above, Shiera, but she’s asked me to have Jon Snow’s children, as bastards to be legitimised by her as my heirs!”

“Mmmnn.” Shiera turned toward a bubbling cauldron, frothing with blood and some kinds of plants, and looked into it, as if she could see something within. “She would, wouldn’t she.”

“...Shiera?” Elaena stepped closer.

“Elaena, consider this. Those who are brought back, lose a measure of themselves. They become harder, more focused on what really matters to them, more distant from human emotion. That Daenerys is the great woman she is, revived, shows what her real priorities were. She is still compassionate, executing such a compassionate design, but daring to inflict the suffering necessary to achieve a greater good, precisely because that sincere compassion was such a great part of her when she was alive the first time. Someone like me has never died, but transitions directly. I am capable of recognising the difference, recognising that for Daenerys that was a sharp shock. Not a slow process of – becoming less human, as I have. So you see,” she spun to catch the girl sharply, fixed with her heterochromatic eyes, “that Daenerys cared a great deal about her family, and so she wishes a legacy for them. You were step one in that legacy. Someone she could think of as a Targaryen, a dragonrider by right as proof of it. But it isn’t enough for her, she wants more than that, and what she wants, in fact, is to continue the line of her mother, isn’t it?”

“y-yes…”

“Yes, well, there you go. There is no escaping it. People would gladly do anything for her. You are her chosen heir, and … You’re afraid of laying with him, aren’t you?”

“I hate him, as does half the world at this point I think, or would if they knew!”

“No doubt. But he is Her Majesty’s nephew.”

“She told me to think of it like milking a cow.”

Shiera laughed, sharply.

“I already agreed,” Elaena added. “And I don’t go back on my word. But I came to you so that… So that I could confide in someone, and also because… I thought you might have some experience in taking a man, from a position where one is …”

“Dominant to him?” Shiera grinned at the sharp blush the words instantly produced in Elaena. “There are ways.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Converting military ranks from the ancient and medieval worlds to modern times can never be precise, as the regimental structure of modern armies only developed in the 17th century. Even the Roman legions don't really correspond with modern regiments. In the ancient Greek world, a chilliarch was the commander of a thousand, but given the small size of Greek armies, it was a high command, one step down from the commander of the army. Chilliarch should be considered roughly equivalent to Brigadier/Brigadier General.
> 
> 2\. One of many infuriating things about the show was the way that Arya's gleeful sadism was portrayed as liberating and empowering, whereas the show runners tried to sell the idea that executing Lord Tarly and his son swiftly was somehow sinister. In the show, Arya fed Walder Frey his sons in a pie, before cutting his throat (and apparently, having an orgasm as she watched him die). Then, she poisoned all the male members of his family. Prior to that, she gouged out Ser Meryn Trant's eyes, before subjecting him to slow slicing. She really enjoyed playing with her food. One of the silliest lines was "I know a killer when I see one." She saw one, whenever she looked in the mirror.
> 
> 3\. Melanudrigill is an ancient name for Caledon Forest, in Scotland. It forms the backdrop for the plot of Witch Wood, a rather good horror novel by John Buchan.


	22. The Precipice

Soon after they had begun their plans in regard to the Empress’ ‘guest’, they had set sail for the Blackwater. Dragonstone and Driftmark had fallen with little resistance, and Elaena had Jon taken with her to Driftmark, the forward position, from which Drogon could easily defend the main fleet and Army on Dragonstone to the rear.

That was distraction enough from the task at hand. It was finally time to approach Jon. Elaena was actually terrified by this course of events, even as she had not been about riding Drogon or fighting battles. For all that Shiera had been light-hearted about it, she had also warned Elaena. A man was _strong._ A fit soldier like Elaena could certainly physically control many men, but not the likes of Jon Snow. This was not a contest of strength that Elaena could win. A woman taking a man to bed who did not want it was a matter of guile, not brute force.

Another part of her was sickened. They were fighting for the liberty of all, but this did not feel like liberty, not to her, nor did it seem to her like it was for Jon. She was realistic about why she was doing this, the humour masking the discomfort. She was doing this because she had hitched her wagon to a shooting star. She had gone from being a Saerganyon to a Targaryen, an impoverished noblewoman on the edge of death, surrounded by those who would end her family for their crimes (which, she now darkly thought, might well have been justified), to a Crown Princess. She had a _dragon,_ and her Valyrian blood sung with pleasure at the act of flight. An ancient sorceress taught her the magic of her people, and Priestesses of the Lord of Light treated her with gracious dignity and respect. Troops and fleets obeyed her commands. She might have once lived her whole life in the Black Walls, but now she had seen half the world.

 _Do you think you have any right to any of this? Of course not. You may be a good Empress for fifty years, and have not earned what Daenerys is going to give you._ Daenerys extended it to her because she was a Dragonrider, and a descendant of Saera Targaryen. Both of these things were ultimately traits that Elaena had been born with, nothing more.

With her diaphragm aching with a peculiar kind of tension, she assembled the potions she had made. The one for Jon, the one for _her._ There was no way she’d be able to do anything without it. Then she put it into a glass of Pentoshi wine, sweet to hide the taste, and downed it quickly. It filtered down like a muddy sludge, and to drink all of it she had to add more wine to the cup, not like that mattered in the moment. It had a measure of blood in it, and the roiling power came over her, sharp and quick, with a kind of manic intensity which banished her concerns and focused her mind, until time was like a _tick-tock, tick-tock_ governing her, dividing her by the beats of her heart into sharp, quick motions, and she felt reckless and giddy, and very aroused.

Casting one last look around her chambers, she quickly departed for the suite in which she kept Jon. He was there, of course he was; he had essentially been under house arrest the entire time. The Unsullied let her past without comment. The Queen of the Free had placed him under Elaena’s guard and trust, she could kill him, and they would assume it had been the command of the Empress.

But that had not been Daenerys’ command. Elaena stepped through, into the sitting room where Jon sat, uncomfortably. He looked up sharply. “Your Highness,” he said, rising. There was a book open, a very finely engraved one, and Elaena supposed it good that he at least cared enough to read. She waved a hand.

“Sit, Jon, sit. I don’t care for formality between us.” Dressed casually in the robes of a Lyseni noblewoman—they were not made for her, but plundered, a concession to frugality—she settled in front of him. As she grew into her womanhood, those robes were not unflattering.

“Ah, of course, Your Highness.”

For a moment it was just the two of them looking at each other. Elaena smiled faintly. The potion made her distracted by the rippling of the shadows behind Jon, from the curtains of the portico, rustling in the wind. “A book of prophecy?”

“Yes, it is.” He held it out. “I’m trying to understand. I hope Her Majesty will go north soon, and… We must finish this business.”

“We must,” Elaena agreed, taking the book, and musing. “I think this has happened many times before.”

“Likely so.”

 _God, this is the most awkward conversation I’ve ever faced. What do I even have in common with him?_ She extended the flagon of wine. “Drink, Jon. I… I understand you’re at the end of the whip.”

He eyed her for a moment, then took the flagon. Poured some out into one of his cups. “Heh. That’s one way to put it. I want this over with. One way or another. I was told that Valyrian blood sorcery was known here, and Lady Quaithe—Shiera--confirmed that. Val’s prophecies are true. That means we must fly north, and soon. I just – I have sacrificed everything that matters to me, except Ghost. My honour, my family, my pride, any love I might have ever had. And still this Thing is there, in the North, it’s in the body of my brother…”

“I thought the Pretender was your cousin?” Elaena asked innocently.

“He was raised as my brother. Arya my sister. Sansa my sister, and… Father let me see myself as a Stark, always. I guess for the sake of Lady Lyanna’s memory, now that I know the truth.”

“When I heard the full tale,” Elaena smiled faintly, “I admit that I didn’t understand why Prince Rhaegar didn’t take your mother to wife alongside Princess Elia. I suppose he thought it would start a civil war, since the Seven God of Westeros hold polygyny in contempt, but he started one anyway. I imagine Westeros would be a happier place had he been more daring, and less of a rogue; and I’d still be behind the Black Walls.”

“Would Your Highness like that?” Perhaps Jon assumed that she would, as he doubtless wished he was at a Winterfell that no longer existed, where his family was all together, and happy.

“No,” Elaena answered plainly, bringing a touch of surprise to him. “Like Lukaeras Soraerys before the Gates of Sar Mell—trapped on the wrong side of the river, the levies breached, the Rhoynish around him fifty to one, the fleet wrecked—two men dead for every one alive, his men standing around wet, beaten, cold. ‘Let’s go, we lack nothing’. Even without a dragon, we Valyrians are the blood of fire. Doesn’t that get your blood up a bit? To think of yourself on a night like that?”

“I’ve fought the dead. I’d rather think no more of war, but it pulls me back.”

Elaena winced, and flushed. Her emotions were all close to her sleeve, now, but she could see that Jon was distracted, too. “Forgive me. I …”

“You don’t know how to talk to the traitor who killed Her Majesty,” Jon said bluntly, and shocked Elaena with his quick powers of observation. She had been esteeming him quite lowly before that moment. A blush came naturally to her face, and she opened her mouth, and then closed it again. “I love her like a mother” slipped out at last. “She gave me everything. I’ve seen her personally liberate millions. Taken pride in helping her. I just don’t understand. I’ve been told you were a dragon, why didn’t you marry her? Rule at her side?”

“I knew why at the time I made my choices, but to be honest, I don’t understand them myself anymore, Your Highness. I’ve torn them apart so much that they don’t make sense to me, either.” He drank more wine, looking lost. “The further away from them I get, the less they make sense.”

“I feel the same way about slavery. Growing up, it seemed perfectly justified to my family. I didn’t hesitate about it. It had been part of our culture for thousands of years. Only the coming of the Empress caused me to reflect on that, and only because I was forced. Now I can’t find a single way to defend slavery—but I know that I, and my whole family, did as a matter of course in the past. Yet all of that seems hollow. Perhaps we’re not so different after all.”

“Well, you are brave and beautiful,” he laughed, seeming as to test the waters.

 _Yes, that potion is working._ “And you are the blood of the Dragon. So, you regret it, and now we’re on Driftmark, in what passes for a city here, though it is very pretty; and you’re trying to be the ally of the Empress, no matter what it costs you. That did take courage, Jon. That did. And I do admire that. You had to think you were sailing to certain death, except, Her Majesty is far more forgiving than most would think sensible.” A grin. “But I’m thankful for it, since otherwise we wouldn’t be talking today.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” he agreed. It was true. Most sovereigns would have long since put him to death. “You’ve courage, too, to have fought in some of the greatest battles known.”

“Though I am a woman, I am a dragon, and I could not be so callow as to live a life uninterested in courage. Hate yourself a little less, at least you are brave enough to face her.” The potion in her veins made Elaena reckless. She rose, grinning. “One might say that we join Her Majesty as the last of the blood of the dragon.”

“I will never be a Targaryen, Elaena.”

“No, but the blood calls to itself. And you flew. Come.” She gestured to him, and walked to the portico of the apartment, which was built in the roof of one of the trade warehouses on the island, a style which remained as a remnant of Valyrian architecture, when everything else had become Andal. They looked down, out over the town, the Sept dominating the main street, the houses of the merchant factors around the market, the warships crammed into the harbour. They were both comfortable with their balance, such was a natural Valyrian thing, to not suffer vertigo. They were truly the race of the air.

“Perhaps we’re not all that different. Both of our families misled us, but here we are, in the end, trying to do right by Her Majesty.” Elaena leaned against him.

He stared down at her in surprise. “Your Hi – Elaena?”

She spun to face him, pressing against his robes and looking up. “You are a strong man, Jon, and courageous, and of the blood of my breed. The Dragon sings out, like for like, it’s the law of our people and there’s no fighting it… Who would, with someone so handsome?” It was a really awful attempt to seduce a man, but she’d hit him with the potion first. As she bodily pressed against him, her hands roaming, shoving herself into contact with all the right parts of his body, she didn’t need to do much more.

“There must be life after the battle with the night, or what are we fighting for?”

* * *

"Dragonstone has fallen to the Targaryen", stated the King without preamble, to his Small Council. _More bad news _. Tarth, Driftmark, Crab Island, and Cracklaw Point had all fallen to the invader. Parts of the Crownlands were now in open revolt. Yet, there was worse. "__ Lord Leyton Hightower has proclaimed allegiance to her. He has appointed a new High Septon, who preaches against me in the Starry Sept. Gendry Baratheon has turned traitor, no doubt due to the influence of my whore of a sister; yes, Arya herself now serves the usurper. Lord Tyrion, you were meant to draw them into battle in Dorne. You have failed me yet again." The injustice of it stung. He had returned to the capital, with most of the army of Dorne, upon receiving the royal command. A garrison had been left at Sunspear under Utt, and another in Plankytown. He cared little what happened to them. Above all, it was Tyrion's own deteriorating prospects of survival which dogged his thoughts.

"Your Grace, I did all you could ask of me, and more. I slaughtered thousands."

"You have one final chance to redeem yourself. She intends to fly Drogon North of the Wall. On no account must that be allowed to happen. She must be drawn into a fight for this city itself. " That explained the scorpions and ballistae that lined the walls and turrets of the Red Keep, the one great building in the city to have been rebuilt. He guessed what was coming. "We must start to execute the city's population. Leave her no option but to come to their rescue."

"An excellent plan, your Grace", commented Bronn Stokeworth. Allyron, and Hoat nodded approvingly. Lord Commander Brienne looked sick.

"How many men do we have in the city?" asked Grand Maester Tarly. He had lost weight since Tyrion was last in the city, no doubt due to his own fear of retribution. Tyrion thought he should have gained it instead, perhaps he'd be too fat to hang. Of course, the Dragon bitch might be amused to see his head pop off when he was strung up, from the weight of his body.

 _Well, enough of that._ With Oldtown now in revolt, the rest of the Reach would follow. There was nowhere Tarly could flee to. His mother and sister at Horn Hill viewed the man with disgust, he well knew.

"Fifteen thousand returned with Lord Tyrion" commented Bronn. "Another three thousand Raven's Claws, plus twelve thousand, intended as reinforcements for Dorne. Quite sufficient for our purposes. "

"And, you're just proposing to slaughter innocent men, women, and children?", retorted Brienne.

"The needth oth the king outweigh any other conthiderathion. Hith will hath the forth of law," lisped Hoat. _The King _,__ thought Tyrion. For the first time, he saw real anxiety in the man's face. Bran had not counted on his enemies having access to a magic equivalent to his own. To be honest, even he was sickened by the idea of slaughtering the city's population, but he recognised it as his one chance of survival. __If Drogon, or least his rider, could be shot down, that would be a major blow in their favour, enough perhaps, to turn the tide.__ The meeting concluded with Bronn promising to give the necessary orders.

"Lord Master Hoat, Lord Allyron, Lord Tyrion, I shall need your full support", said the Hand to the King. They all gave the assent. Tyrion retired to his chambers in Maegor's Holdfast, only to be surprised by Tarly.

"Oh Gods, Tyrion, what can we do? We're going to lose this war. She'll have no mercy for any one of us. "

"Perhaps you should have thought of that, before betraying her, and Jon Snow, and taking a position you aren't entitled to." Sam flushed with anger.

"You betrayed them as well. You're more guilty than I am!"

"I'm well aware of that. We'd just better make sure we don't lose, hadn't we?"

"And, Gilly! She hates me too! She calls me a spineless traitor. She's disgusted with how I used the information she found at the Citadel. And, I've been so good to her. I took a fancy to her, and I showed her how kind I really am. I can't marry her, obviously, now I'm Grand Maester and being highborn, but I give her money."

Tyrion looked up at him. It was unusual to meet someone even more base than he was, but this was one such. "She's right. You are a spineless traitor. Now, get out of my sight!" Sam looked shocked. Then to Tyrion's disgust, he began to weep. "I'll bet the last time you sobbed like that was when your father denied you another slice of cake, or when Jon Snow ordered you out of the kitchens at Castle Black, and into the training yard. Leave, worm!" Sam left the room, snivelling. That night, he dined alone, on duck in plum sauce, accompanied by a fine wine of the Arbour. He might as well enjoy himself while he could.

The following morning he woke, took some bread and ale, and called for a servant to bring him his armour and dress him. Once clad, he walked down to the main Courtyard. Bronn, Hoat, Allyron, Raffington, were all present, along with a great host of men. Tarly of course, was nowhere to be seen. He did note the absence of Brienne. "Where is the Lord Commander?" Raffington asked Bronn. A sudden thought flashed from the King She seeks to raise the city against me. Kill her with the rest.

"I understand she has turned traitor" remarked Tyrion. "She must die with the rest."

"Right you are" said Bronn. "Now then, Tyrion, I want you to take a couple of thousand men into Flea Bottom. Show no mercy, not that I have to tell you that!" he added, laughing. Tyrion gathered his men together, explained what was required, and then led them out of the gate to the Red Keep. They skirted due West, under the Shadow of the City Walls. This part of the city had escaped the worst of Drogon's fires. Flea Bottom had been hit harder, but the smallfolk had largely rebuilt their hovels there. it occurred to him that the manse he had imprisoned Shae in was located not far from here. _Are you and father now fucking each other in hell,_ he wondered. Some of his men carried incendiaries. Flea Bottom was largely wood, and could be fired quite easily. As they filed down Muddy Way, they saw that someone had erected a stout barricade of upturned carts, and items of furniture, across the street. And there she was, the stupid blonde-haired wench, trying to be a heroine at the last. Scores of men, armed with pikes, kitchen knives, cleavers, and a variety of household implements swarmed behind the barricade.

"This could be a vicious fight, my lord" remarked one of his deputies, a great brute of a man named Rorge. As if to confirm his words, a hail of roof tiles came raining down on them, several men screaming as they were gashed or suffered head wounds.

"Which is why I'm not giving them one. Shields up!" he commanded. Sheltered from the raining tiles, he outlined his plan to his lieutenants. His men then started to swarm into surrounding houses, with bottles of oil and brushwood, setting them ablaze. Other men advanced towards the barricade, shields aloft, bearing Aerys's "fruits", glass balls filled with wildfire which they hurled at the defenders. The barricade went up like a green torch, as his men whooped for joy, and the defenders screamed. The flames leapt from house to house, along the street, as civilians howled and fled. "At them lads, let them have it", cried Tyrion, filled with rage and excitement. Some men loosed arrows and bolts at the reeling defenders, others sought to feed the flames. He noticed that a couple of idiots on his own side had managed to set fire to themselves, much to the merriment of their fellows.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Brienne coughed and choked on the roiling smoke. She had had enough, she decided, quite abruptly, the day before, at the council meeting. House Stark had betrayed her trust. King Bran was a monster, and Queen Sansa was not a lot better, by all accounts. Not for the first time, she bitterly regretted helping her to escape to Castle Black, and swearing to protect her. It occurred to her that her entire life had been spent backing unworthy people. Even Jaime had gone back to his vile sister in the end, like a dog returning to its own vomit. All she could hope to do now was try and make amends. Last night, she had gone out to warn the leaders of the Smallfolk about the impending massacre. No doubt, the King would find out swiftly what was happening, but she cared no longer whether she lived or died. At least she had given the smallfolk some chance. They could fight or they could flee, but they wouldn't be cut down like livestock.

Barricades had been set up around Flea Bottom and in other districts, There was nothing wrong with the barricade she'd built, nor her suggestion that householders arm themselves with tiles, and pelt the attackers with them, but the Imp had proved utterly ruthless, willing to burn the population alive. She had waited with hundreds of people behind the largest, that in Muddy Way. She expected a vicious battle, but the sheer cruelty of her enemies even now, had surprised her. They would use fire, as ruthlessly as the Dragon Queen all those years ago, and burn the district to the ground. Buildings blazed around her, as she retreated back up the street, several score men still maintaining their discipline with her. The blaze at the barricade had died down, and she saw the enemy surging forward, now, determined to add cold steel to the fire. She guessed that many of them just loved killing for its own sake.

"Stand your ground!" she screamed at the others. At least they could win time for the rest to escape. One great grinning brute approached her, a sword in each hand. Rorge! She recognised the monster, a man who had delighted in rape, murder, and robbery across the Riverlands, and just the man the Imp would choose for his dirty work. "I'm goin' to cut your legs off, and then I'll fuck you bloody!" he yelled as he charged her. _Gods he's strong _,__ she thought as their swords clashed in mid-air, jarring her right arm, all the way up. He stuck fast with the other sword, scoring her breastplate. They parted, circling each other warily. Several attackers, had stopped to watch, as each of them struck again and again. Then, Brienne appeared to stumble, falling on to her right knee. Rorge yelled in triumph, driving his sword down, only to scream in agony as she drove her swordpoint up into his groin. _They fall for that trick all over again,_ she thought, as more of them closed in. None had Rorge's skill, fortunately, and she put down three in quick succession, her swordarm darting right and left, jabbing, thrusting, cutting with all her skill. She stole a quick glance around her. Most of her men were dead or fled, and she retreated swiftly, only to stumble at the last. She felt a white hot pain in the back of her neck, where a bolt had penetrated her armour. On her knees now, she looked up to see the Imp himself, axe in hand, waddling towards her. He stared own at her, for a moment, before speaking.

"Stupid wench. You should have stayed on Tarth and married one of your suitors. There's no such thing as an ugly heiress." He raised the axe, smirking. The last thing she saw was it flashing in the sunlight just before it reached her head.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Palace of Dragon. Dragonstone, the island of this grand, artistic palace, a reproduction of all that had once existed in the Freehold, in miniature. This time, Daenerys had declared, she would not permit anyone to dislodge her. Her ships filled the harbours of Dragonstone, crammed in, from the town of Derlyn with the mouldering ruins of centuries-old Valyrian trading warehouses, when once the island had been a Factory of commerce on the coast of Westeros, to the smaller harbour directly below the palace in a narrow cleft in the rock.

That the fleet guarded them was enough, that the island was thickly quartered with troops was enough, and Driftmark, too. Daenerys—and Daario—had their minds on other things. Namely, each other, together, on this night.

She stretched languidly below him, writhing in passion. More important than the fleet was the hypocaust, linked to some strange system of convective air which radiated from vents in the rock. The bedroom was the perfect temperature for being naked; not like Daenerys needed it, for she radiated with an inner fire, now. If they were only man and woman, perhaps they could have just been together like this forever.

He had trained himself to ignore the wounds that death had inflicted upon her. Her voice, her moans, the soft sound of her delight, these things were the same. The same woman beneath him. Sometimes comfort and familiarity with a lover mattered more than beauty. A man could desire the ready familiarity, the comfort and companionship and affection, the nature of the way a woman moved, even if her flower had long since moved on.

He loved her as passionately as she desired, as gently as she needed. Listened to her. She deserved that much. The sea breeze warred with the warmth emanating from the stone, and the stirring of wind across them was a motivation to continue. Fire and salt.

Daenerys was eager that night, though she never seemed tired these days, she was particularly eager. They made love again, and again, with Daenerys playfully pulling him back down when he thought he was done and exhausted, and at the end, even riding him instead, to ‘let him rest’, though what followed was anything but.

By the end, he was completely exhausted, under the stirring conflict of gentle heat and scents of salt sea, in what was a beautiful growing summer. Tangled in the sheets from head to toe, Daario felt himself drifting off. As he did, he wondered why it always seemed like Daenerys was awake afterwards, like the Lord of Light had given her some limitless energy. Even in that moment, as he fell into his slumber, he could have sworn that she was gently untangling herself, and stepping away from the bed.

His dreams that night mingled happiness with her with worry. They were discomfited. He wished for all the world that he could heal her, make her whole. He wished that he had accompanied her to Westeros, where he could have put paid to the eunuch, the Imp, the Starks of Winterfell, where he could have told Jon Snow to fuck off like he had richly deserved.

But it didn’t seem like that was possible.

 _I pray I make it a little more bearable for you, my dragon._ Daario had never prayed for anything else.

* * *

Yara Greyjoy had not been expecting Daenerys that night; she had believed that her lover had been with Daario, and had already drifted off to sleep. Their arrangement remained cordial: Daario was Daenerys’ man, Yara was her woman. The Queen kept one of each, and as long as there were no others, that was all fair and good for all of them.

But Daenerys had come to her in the middle of that night. Quiet, the other woman, little, comfortable against her with her blazing heat (it was almost too much, but Yara had some shutters open for the sea breeze). They laid together, just warmly pressed in an embrace, for some time. As Yara awoke, Daenerys got more playful with her, rubbing and groping and exploring with her hands. That they made love shortly after that was obvious, and Yara wasn’t going to complain about having lost half a night’s sleep for that. Not ever.

Sometimes, she had a very heavy heart about this wonderful woman, who was much too young and even now should have had so much of a life ahead of her. Yara would have harrowed Hell to restore her to wholeness. She was quite confident that Daario would stand at her side for the job, too; unfortunately, no such option was in the offing.

When they stirred, Yara called for the servants. “Bring Her Majesty’s clothes, too,” she ordered, and when they departed again, kissed Dany on the cheek. “Come on, Dany.” It was so rare for her to stay in bed, and it didn’t seem like she’d slept a wink.

_No, it never did._

“I shall come exactly when I please,” Daenerys teased, and pushed herself up. “I will also stay with you and Daario for breakfast.”

“Oh? Well, that’s encouraging.” Daenerys almost never stayed for meals.

“Perhaps.” Daenerys seemed serious and composed, and it made Yara sigh gently. The moment of lightheartedness had faded.

They dressed together, and Daenerys sent word for Daario, who joined them. Place-settings were prepared only for Daario and Yara, and Yara noted it at once. “As usual, Dany?”

“As usual. Good morning, Daario…”

“’Morning,” he embraced her with the kind of comfortable tiredness of a man who did not mind his late night.

Daenerys just shrugged, before she moved to sit at the head of the table. “Eat. I have important matters to discuss. This is about Elaena.”

Yara exchanged a glance with Daario. _Well._ She was well-aware that she had been one of Elaena’s foremost tutors and instructors at the court.

“I want both of you to swear oaths to me that you will follow her as Empress.” She focused on Yara for a moment. “This is _not_ about the arrangement of the Driftwood Chair to the Imperial Crowns. This is a matter of personal loyalty as an ally and a friend.”

“I understand,” Yara answered, growing gravely serious. “But we should settle that first.”

“We should,” Daenerys agreed—a smile touched the haunted rictus of her face. A death’s head grin which was still imparted with more liveliness than most people would ever know. For a moment, the ache surged in Yara’s heart. “But for now. Your oaths. I want your oaths, on whatever you hold dear, but most of all, knowing that wherever I am when it happens, if you cannot keep them—I will be disappointed. And I sincerely believe that you don’t want that. So I want you to swear, and to strive, and if necessary to die, for Elaena’s sake. She is going to be the continuation of all that I ever have been.”

Yara felt ashen, hollow, a little sick. Daenerys was so composed, so lifelike, so herself, precisely because she was considering death. And one did not make such a request lightly, nor when the end of one’s life was still a long time away. “Dany…”

“Yara.” Dany faintly shook her head. “I want to die.”

Daario groaned softly. “Gods, no, can’t we…”

“Daario if you could do anything I’d ask you to. My loves, I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I haven’t done either one since I was brought back to life. My body was too damaged to live a true normal life, like the one that Jon Snow enjoys.” A flash of black rage had slipped into her voice at his name. “I was already barren, and now I am twice barren; my body is too damaged for children, too. What is an Empire whose Empress will die without heirs? What is life without food, without wine, without drink? Even the touch of cold water on the tongue—nothing will stay down because there’s nothing there to digest it, Kinvara had to attend me for a day the one time I tried. And the lack of sleep—I am just always _here,_ and I must worry about everything, because I rule two Empires, and I’m about to rule a third. Not yet. When we are totally victorious—and not even then. A year, at least, to settle the administration of Westeros and deal with all the opposition.”

Yara was weeping, strong woman that she was, she couldn’t help it, the dignity, focus and poise with which Daenerys stood her terrible affliction. The wound that never healed. Now she understood that she had literally been making love with a Fire Wight. She didn’t damn well care about that; she cared about everything that they had lost.

Daario had risen, and stepped behind Daenerys to embrace her. “Promise me one thing first, Dany?”

“Daario?”

“Not until you _want to._ Don’t just set some time. Only when there’s nothing more we can do for you, all right?”

Yara rose, stepped up the table, and knelt to embrace Dany from below as Daario hugged her from behind. “Damn right. Look. I can garner we both made you happy last night…”

“Very,” Dany assured them.

“So, as long as life has any pleasure in it at all…”

“It’s hard, Yara.” Her voice nearly broke. “I’m doing this because I’ve got a plan—to make the world a better place, and to save my family. And that’s the second thing I want to talk about. I’ve ordered Elaena to have Jon Snow’s bastards. I’ll legitimise them as Targaryens.”

Yara grimaced, and she could hear Daario suck in his breath in distaste, too.

“It was a cruel thing to command of her. I account Jon nothing in this, he was dead and he was brought back for the purpose of the Lord of Light, he has no more right to life than I do, and he acted against the Lord and in the service, as the dupe, of the Great Other. He betrayed me. He murdered me like this, while he remains whole, because of the evil trick of fate. Ice preserved him to be my bane. But, every event in life is a two-edged sword. Because of his preservation whole, his seed is still within him, and so, I am going to have a grand-niece and grand-nephew, Kinvara has seen it in the fires. Twins.”

“If both of you love me as you say you do, you will swear to help raise them, to guard them, and to stand at Elaena’s side to keep them safe. They will be the last living legacy of the blood of my mother and, yes, my father, and yes, my brother, Rhaegar. The last living legacy of all the generations of Targaryens since at least Maekar or even Daeron the Second, if not now, then when we are done rooting out the traitors. A family which had lost its dragons, I yet see, will fly again. And Elaena will keep the political legacy of the freedom of Essos, the freedom of the peasants of Westeros from the oppression of their Lords, too—she will see it all through. Swear it. Stand with her, uphold her rights, and defend her children. They will _not_ have a father, I will not allow it; so, Daario, with whatever man she takes for a husband, you must make sure that they are raised well, like they were mine. Indeed, half of Jon’s blood is of the same ken as mine, that quarter of me is in their veins. I beg you, make sure it prospers. The enemies who betrayed and killed me will be undone, and I will have a _family,_ a great family, with many relatives and retainers and advisors, who will be the Sovereigns over the Free, the Great Mothers and Great Fathers of the Three Crowns.”

She looked down to Yara, up to Daario. “When I am done with this awful trial, I want to know that you will be there, to preserve all that I have built. Please.”

“To the last dying breath, you have my word, my oath, and my faith, and Princess Elaena shall have my word and my oath and my faith after you, may the Drowned God spit my bones back onto dry land if I stint her or the children of her body even that single measure. I can hear the waves. It was heard by Him. Such words, spoken, can’t be undone, Your Majesty. Dany.”

Daenerys nodded her head gently. “It was heard by the waves,” she recited.

“My sword and my counsel I have given willing to you, Dany. I will give them to Elaena and her children the same. I have not been a man to follow Gods, so I can’t swear on them before you as anything other than a farce; but I will tell the whole assembly of the Army my promise to you, and ask them to swear with me, and furthermore, that if I ever break the vow, any one of them is invited to kill me and shame my memory an oathbreaker. I’ll make a hundred thousand men swear to hold my manhood and memory in shame and my life only for killing, if I fail my oath to you.” He wiped at his own eyes; he couldn’t help it. “Now, damn it, Dany, is there any hope _at all?_ I’d wade through shit for it if there is…”

“Not… Not like this,” she shook her head, gesturing to herself, but then taking on a distant expression. “However, I have been working with Lady Shiera on … Something. The library here on Dragonstone has been immensely helpful. I believe you will both know if it works.”

Yara looked up, so see Kinvara approach them rapidly, concern etched on her face. "It's Kings Landing" she began. "The monster is butchering the population."


	23. High Water Mark

Val mounted the crest of the ridge on her horse. Tormund rode with her, along with Alys, bearing a furled standard, Ghost loping along beside them. The direwolf had come to love her, after Jon left him with her. She stared down at the desolate moorland that stretched out beneath the Fist of the First Men . The Northern host was mustering for battle, perhaps a mile and a half away. She saw archers, interspersed with spearmen, at the front of the army. Sansa Stark, or her commander, plainly knew her business. Across the opposing front, she saw men mounting their horses, footmen moving into formation. Many of the banners she recognised, the giant in chains of Umber, the merman of Manderly, the white sunburst of Karstark. And in the centre, where the Queen in the North would be stationed, the direwolf of the Starks.

“How many?” asked Tormund. She had already began making a rough estimate. 

“Perhaps ten thousand” she replied. “A couple thousand more than we muster. But, we have help coming. “ They grinned at each other. The tribal leaders had now caught up with them on the ridge, flaunting their own totems, bristling boar, snarling bear, defiant shadow cat and others. Alys unfurled the standard that Val had made herself – the triple dragon of the Targaryens. After leaving the valley of the Thenns, Val had sent out word to the chiefs, warning them of the danger to the North, and the danger that would come from the South, and urging them to unite.

"The Free Folk, flying the triple dragon standard. Who would have thought it?” she remarked. 

“We know who saved us from the Dead, Val, even if those fuckers down there prefer to forget. The night after the battle, we had a feast. I raised a horn of ale to the Dragon Queen. She” he nodded down the hill “just got up and left, in disgust.“ 

“I would expect nothing else. She’s a cold hard selfish woman. I suppose we were lucky we left when we did. Else we’d have been chained up in her slave ships”. Tormund just spat. Slavery was a crime even to the kneelers beyond the Wall. To the Free Folk, the very idea was an abomination. 

“However” continued Val. “if she is captured, she must be treated with honour. Until the time comes to present her to the gods. Make that crystal clear to the chiefs.” A Queen would be a rare gift to the gods. Tormund nodded. 

She saw the Queen ride out from her lines, with a small honour guard, one of them bearing a white flag. Well, a parley before battle was only courteous. She requested Tormund to join her, with Hama, Alys, Roger Glover, and two other chieftans, and they rode down the hill towards Sansa’s party. 

Sansa waited for her enemies, a few hundred yards in front of her men, along with Yagoda, Wolkan, and her guards. She wore a suit of steel plate, made for a woman, with a wolf pelt draped around her shoulders. Her helm was surmounted by a coronet of platinum. The wildlings were savages, she thought. Still, they had fought alongside her own people against the Dead. She would prefer to avoid bloodshed if possible. She watched them approach, frowning with annoyance at the sight of the dragon banner. They had no business flaunting that sigil! She recognised Tormund, but not the others, as they approached. 

“Your Grace, I am Val, seior to the free folk. I speak on their behalf”, said their leader, holding up a hand in token of parley. “Well met, Lady Val, Lord Tormund”, responded Sansa. “Now, you must see clearly that you have no hope of victory. My army outnumbers yours, and is better armed and disciplined. Yet, I would spare the lives of good men and women. I am offering you terms.” 

“Name them,” replied Val, impassively. 

“You, Tormund Giantsbane, and the other chieftans will surrender to my judgement, as will the fugitives from my kingdom. Of the remainder, one tenth will lose their swordhands. Then they, and the rest will return home, after having first given oaths never to take up arms against the North.” 

“I have a counter-offer”, responded Val, mildly. 

“And that is?” 

“We shall allow your entire army to depart safely, upon one condition. You will surrender yourself to my custody. I shall treat you with all the honour due to a Queen, until the time comes to present you to the gods, on Beltane Eve.” 

_Presented to the gods!_

__

“Sacrificed?” she replied in shock. “Do you think I’m mad?” 

__

“Not in the least, your Grace. Please be honest with yourself. Your reign has been a disaster. Daenerys Targaryen has invaded the South. She comes with overwhelming force. But, more than that, she is the champion of the Red God. Neither you, nor King Brandon, can hope to prevail against her. And, even if she were defeated, you are no more than his thrall, ruling the North at his pleasure. He can destroy your soul, if he chooses,” Val smiled nastily at that point, sending a cold shiver down Sansa’s spine. “I’m offering you a way to leave this world with honour, have you but eyes to see it, your Grace. I would open your throat myself before a Heart Tree. Your blood will nourish its roots, and you will be reunited with your ancestors. We shall build a cairn in your memory. Queen Daenerys will not be so merciful, I can assure you.” 

__

Fear gnawed at Sansa. Even if she won today, it was indeed, very likely that the Targaryen would prevail. And this damned woman was right; there would be no mercy. She would be tortured and raped, perhaps for days on end, before whatever was left of her was killed in some excruciating fashion. _But I will not go down in history as the Queen who bent the knee!_

”Your proposal is absurd. This parley is at an end.” She turned and rode for her lines. She addressed Mors Umber and his captains, messengers relaying her words through the army. 

”Comrades, in their pride and arrogance, the savages have placed themselves in our power. They have the courage and ferocity of wild beasts. We have the bravery and discipline of soldiers. Remember you are Northmen, and you have never been defeated. King Robb defeated the Lannisters over and again, only falling victim to treachery. You broke the army of the Dead. You took Kings Landing, and wrought slaughter on the followers of Queen Cersei. Win today, and every one of you will recieve a bonus of three months' pay. The gods are with us. Show yourselves worthy of your ancestors today, and the Fist of the First Men will join the list of your battle honours!" The soldiers roared their approval.

Mors Umber saluted; "Your Grace, strength and honour. We await your commands, and at every command, we are ready." 

"All officers to their stations. " She had every intention of fighting today. She knew that some had mocked her for hiding in the crypts at the Battle of Winterfell. She had laid the accusations of cowardice to rest, she hoped, at Deepwood Motte and Great Wyck. Today, she would prove herself worthy of her the best of her ancestors. 

_And if the worst happens, better to die on the battlefield than at the hands of Daenerys Targaryen or the wildlings._

Tormund laughed as he rode back towards his tribe, now half-way down the hill. The idea of that icy bitch being sacrificed to the gods amused him no end. Val had really got under her skin! He grinned with approval too, as he saw how many of the warriors and spearwives had mail coats and good swords and armour, thanks to Sansa too. Sensibly enough, she'd insisted that Winterfell's smiths work flat out, producing armour and weapons for all those fighting the Dead. She'd never meant the free folk to take them back home with them, but, she couldn't really do anything about it when they left. He patted Longclaw for luck, as he rejoined them. He doubted Jon would begrudge him using it in the coming fight. He no longer had any time for his sister, after all. 

__

They halted as he addressed them. “I’m not one for fancy speeches. Just remember this! Any one of you is worth two of the kneelers. Fight hard, and know that help is coming. Now”, he turned in his saddle and pointed with his sword at the enemy, “there are brave men down there. Let’s go and kill them!” His people cheered at the tops of their voices. He could only pray that the help that Val had promised would come on time. 

__

__

__

Myranda stood with Robyn and the others, listening to the Septon, as he finished addressing his flock. Perhaps one tenth of the army and camp followers worshipped the Seven. Hundreds were gathered to hear him. "Remember, any one of you who dies on the field of battle will enter the Seven Heavens, today. The enemy are heathens and savages. You will fill the Seven hells with their miserable souls." It did occur to her, as she knelt with the others to receive his blessing, that this might not be the most tactful of sermons to be giving. Most of their own side were "heathens" after all, either followers of the old gods, or even foreign sellswords, who worshipped any number of strange deities, if they worshipped anything at all. It was just as well that none of them were present to hear him. She uttered a silent prayer for victory today, and for the Seven to protect Queen Sansa, the woman she loved like a sister. The service finished, she got up, wished Robyn Manderly good luck, and then walked back towards their camp, where she would wait with Mya Stone, and the other women. 

__

The service finished, Robyn mounted his horse, and rode back to the Queen, stationed a short distance behind her men. He wore her favour, under his armour. She was surrounded by a squadron of horsemen, both to protect her, and to act as an additional reserve. He and Mors Umber had urged her to stay out of the fighting, but she seemed to determined to take part if she could. As he rode up to her, she greeted him. "I offered them good terms" she explained. "Their leader offered to sacrifice me in front of a weirwood, in turn". 

__

"Typical of these fucking primitives! I'd happily nail them to their sacred trees!" Sansa laughed at that. They both watched as the wildlings advanced down the hill. He'd expected a wild charge, but they were maintaining good discipline, with their foot in the centre, advancing steadily, with their horsemen riding down on each flank. Similar to their own formation. Plainly, they'd learned a lot from the Northmen when they fought under Jon Snow. The battlefield was flanked by two fast=flowing streams, running down from the hills on either side. There wasn't much scope for clever tactics. It would be a slogging match, but his army had the numbers and the discipline. He thought back to the march through the forest. From time to time, an arrow had come whistling out of the woods at them, or a thrown spear had claimed a life. To be honest, he'd expected a lot more trouble, and he'd worried at the time, whether they were being led into a deliberate trap. Still, it didn't look like it now. No, he expected a hard fight, but the savages would break eventually, and then they'd hunt them down.

They were no more than half a mile off now. He saw Sansa frowning, as several of the wildlings broke out of their ranks, and began dancing and capering strangely, throwing their swords in the air and catching them, howling and screaming to the heavens. One of the guards spoke, "Wolf dancers, your Grace. They think they can fill themselves with the spirits of wolves, and fight the more ferociously. They'll die just as easily as the rest, I can assure you." 

A quarter of a mile off now, a great host marching towards them, driven forward to the music of pipes and drums. A low whisper rose from the wildlings, gradually becoming a roar, as they began to jog trot towards the Northmen, shields up. Robyn heard the vintinars calmly giving orders to the archers. "Notch". They fitted arrows to their strings. "Draw". Hundreds drew back the bowstrings to their ears, waiting for the order. "Loose," came the command, the enemy now at three hundred yards. There was a great hissing sound, as the arrows flew through the air. The next volley was loosed even before the first struck. Here and there he saw the enemy stumble and fall as their arrows struck home. A second later, and arrows loosed by the wildlings began to fall among them. One bounced off his breastplate, the force too weak to seriously trouble him. 'Vizors down", commanded Sansa. 

Tormund rode just behind the van of the wildling army, the front of his horse protected by armour of boiled leather. He wore mail and a great steel helm with face plates. No more than two hundred yards from the enemy arrows were now falling among them in earnest, most missing, or spinning away after striking shields and mail. Here and there, warriors were falling but still the main body surged forward. One man to his right shrieked, a splinter from an arrow having pierced his eye. No time to worry, he must ride on! He hoped their own bowmen were hurting the enemy in turn. They didn't have to win this fight. Just keep going till the help that Val had promised arrived. He grinned as he imagined the shock that Queen Sansa would recieve. His horse stumbled on the uneven ground, but fortunately recovered, and still they pressed on, no more than a hundred yards away from the enemy now. Right across the lines, warriors were falling to the arrows, but he could see their own archers taking a toll as well. Fuck it. An arrow had struck his helm, leaving him stunned. He saw stars, reeling in the saddle for a few moments before recovering. The host raced forward, eager to close the remaining gap. He saw the enemy archers falling back among the ranks of their own footmen, who surged forward in turn, shields aloft and spears out. And, then the two shieldwalls struck each other, a great sound like thunder rumbling across the battlefield. 

If he was honest with himself, he loved fighting, it's what he lived for. Fighting, fucking, and drinking. Two of his own men went down, and then he was in among the enemy, using his horse to barrel them aside. A spear darted up at him, and he turned it aside with Longclaw, before removing his attacker's head with the backstroke. His horse reared, before stamping down hard on the head of an axeman, crushing his skull like an egg. Gods! Longclaw almost had a life of its own. He cut down hard at a man's shoulder, and the blade went through his mail shirt like a knife through cheese, almost cutting him in two. All around him, wolf-dancers, warriors and spear-wives were tearing into the gap that he'd opened, ripping apart the centre of the Northern army. Fuck, they might even put them to flight without the need for any help! He laughed and sang, begging the enemy to come and be slaughtered, the battle-madness now upon him.

Sansa watched, horrified, as she saw that ginger-bearded maniac and his followers, tearing the centre of her army apart. She glanced along the length of her lines. The left flank was holding, the right was driving the enemy back. Rival horsemen clashed, but so far as she could tell, the Northmen were having the best of it. But, none of that would matter if the centre of her army came apart. Where in the Seven Hells was Mors Umber, shouldn't he be committing the reserves to the fight now? _Well, if you want a job done properly, you do it yourself _. Tormund and his fighters could be no more than fifty yards from her now, and already, some of her own men, in the rear ranks, were starting to flee. "Sound the charge" she commanded her trumpeter. "Your Grace..." began Robyn, about to dispute her, but she ignored him, kicking her horse forward. The trumpet sounded, and then she and her horsemen were surging forward, two hundred of them, driving their own ranks apart in the their eagerness to destroy the enemy.__

____

_Protect the Queen, protect my love,_ was all Robyn could think, as he strove to keep pace with her. He hardly cared for the men on his own side that he knocked aside or rode over, as he kept his gaze on her. They hit the wildings hard, hacking them apart with lance, axe, and sword. He gasped with pain, as a howling spearwife drove her weapon into his left arm, piercing the elbow joint. Bitch! With his sword arm, he cut down hard on to her helm, splitting her head down the middle. His horse reared screaming, and he just managed to kick clear of the stirrups as he fell. One of the wolf-dancers had felled his beast, driving a wicked-looking seax into her neck. He recovered to his feet, even as the man lunged at him, yet still, he caught the blow on the hilt of his own blade, before lunging forward, driving his sword through the man's neck. He heard a wild keening, and realised with a shock, that he was screaming as he fought. He stole a glance at Sansa, to see her laying about her with her own sword, fur cloak now spattered with blood, not the most expert fighter, perhaps, but definitely not lacking in courage. Thank the gods her guards were fighting alongside her. He rushed to her side. His left arm was hanging uselessly, but he could still use his right. He began to sense the enemy giving way now. More reserves were joinging them, and a great surge of men rushed past them. Not even that ginger giant could hold them back now. Sansa glanced down at him. 

____

"You're a heroine Sansa, do you know that? You saved this fight." 

____

"It's not over yet. And, your arm! Come, we need to get out of this, and get you to a healer. " She turned her horse away from the fight, and he walked back with her. 

____

Sansa's heart surged with joy. She'd proved beyond doubt now, she had the courage of her father, of Robb, and her ancestors. She turned her horse about, looking out on the fighting. They were winning! All across the battlefield, now, the wildlings were giving way. She need play no more part in the fight, today. Her cavalry would ride the enemy to ruin, once they took flight. The bards would sing of her exploits on the battlefield, a century from now. Suddenly, neither Daenerys, nor King Bran, seemed so frightening any more. She would face them down in turn! 

____

And then she heard it. The sound that had haunted her dreams for years. A great screech that echoed across the battlefield. Gods, oh Gods, No! She looked up to see her worst nightmare approaching, tearing across the sky from the South, darkening the ground with his wings. 

_____ _

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We decided to break chapter 23 into two chapters, as so much ground is covered. This is a bit shorter than usual. Had the show continued along our lines, this would be Episode 9 of Season 10 (with a final short Season 11 to deal with wrap-up). One can imagine the triumphant Targaryen music just before the credits rolled.


	24. The Battle for the Dawn

**The Battle for the Dawn  
**

From the moment the news had been received from King’s Landing, the Empress’ Council had moved into planning. Elaena and Jon had been recalled from Driftmark. Kinvara, Shiera, Yara, Daario, Elaena, and Jon sat at the Queen’s table, and Elaena and Jon had sat next to each other, Daenerys seeming to sharply note it, before she carried on with a nod to Kinvara to speak.

“We have driven the monster into a state of desperation,” she explained. “First in Dorne, and now in King’s Landing, he is trying everything that he can to keep us from going to the North. He wants us to commit to battle in the south. In fact, we must do anything but. Our true enemy is in the North.” She looked to Shiera, and gave a single nod.

The  undead sorceress presented a glass candle, now wavering with an inner flame, upon the Painted Table of Dragonstone.  A woman spoke through it.

“Val,” Jon said at the sound of her voice. “but, you don’t have a glass candle of your own!”

“...Jon Snow, the Night’s Queen as her own ways, with shards of living ice,” Val explained. “I speak to Daenerys, the Queen of the South, and the Essosi shores, too.”

“I am here,” Daenerys said levelly. She didn’t bother to correct the title from Queen to Empress. “What has come to pass?” 

“An Army of the North is marching beyond the wall to bring us to battle. They certainly intend to reach the Valley of the Thenns, and prevent any attack on the power of the Great Other. We will hold them long enough for you to fly north.”

“It will take days. And, we will certainly only get one opportunity,” Daenerys observed. “He will try to drag us back, by attacking with everything that he has left.”

“I can defend the islands with our fleet; the survival of the Royal fleet is inconsequential,” Yara leaned forward, flinty eyes sharp toward Daenerys. “Your Majesty, Go. End this. And don’t let anything lure you back. I’ve heard that his defences are already collapsing.” She glanced to Elaena.

“You’re correct, Your Grace,” the Princess acknowledged to the Ironborn Queen. “I, in fact, received a gift from the remnants of the Golden Company, which slipped away from the city and occupied Duskendale.” They had been employed for a while as part of Bran’s Army, but after Daenerys had wrecked them so completely, their old iron reputation had disintegrated, and now, it appeared, the men who were left would break contracts to save their own skins. 

“Oh?” Daenerys looked to her. “Do tell, Princess.”

Elaena called for one of the guards, who presented a long wrapped bundle. From within her mask, Daenerys’ eyes glinted. And then the sack around it was stripped away, and the scabbard that was revealed, could only belong to one thing, to one item, to one sword. 

_ Blackfyre.  _

“Exactly as you predicted,” Daenerys murmured, now addressed to Shiera. “So it is time. It must be time.” 

Kinvara nodded and leaned toward the glass candle. “Hold them. The Light will not fail.” 

“We’ll hold them for our own freedom,” Val countered. “But hold them we will.” 

“Then Yara and Daario will lead the defence against any attack sent forth from King’s Landing. There will be no reinforcement or support from Drogon. We will stay in the North for as long as we must.” Daenerys looked sharply. “Unfortunately, only one of us is strong enough to bear Blackfyre, for the cause the sword must have.”

“ _There is no need to bring him,_ ” Elaena declared, though he looked hurt at the words. “I can wield Blackfyre.” She _had_ grown, but Yara thought it would be two-handed at best. 

“The power of the sword will be sufficient in even the smallest hands. It is not for strength, but for the nature of its making, that it matters,” Kinvara interjected. “It need be only the four of us.” 

Daenerys, Elaena, Shiera, Kinvara. 

Jon looked stunned, that at this moment he might just be  _ left behind,  _ not part of the final battle. “I… I would gladly serve. I will  _ gladly  _ fight. This is my fight.  _ This is my fight _ !” 

“You abandoned this fight when you chose to interpret yourself as having been freed from your oath as a Black Brother by death and resurrection. That was worthy of a Braavosi merchant finding a hole in a contract, not a King. Not a Targaryen.” Daenerys pushed herself to her feet. “You abandoned it again when you chose to betray your oath to me, freely given, without my requesting it, and instead murder me for the sake of your sister's own paranoid fear of foreigners, for her hatred of the freed slaves in my ranks. If Kinvara says the power of the sword will be sufficient, then it will be sufficient. And, to be blunt, Snow, the reality is that I will never trust you to fight your sister.” 

“Val?” Jon asked weakly through the candle.

“She is said to be leading the Army in person,” Val acknowledged sharply. 

Daenerys merely shook her head. “Enough of that. We are coming to help—he is not.  Let’s go. Ice is waiting for us, and we are fire.”

They left a silent and flummoxed Jon in their wake. Daario glanced to him with pity for a moment, and then left with Yara, going to Grey Worm to discuss the plans for the defence. He had written his own fate, and there was no heroism in it.  Nobody  cared about Jon Snow anymore, and he had brought himself to that point. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

N ow, Drogon descended, approaching the Army of the North with a fateful elegance. There was something truly grand to behold in a dragon, a vast dragon, shading the ground as he slipped lower. It was the fateful certainty of a hunter stalking his prey.  Drogon was graceful as he lined up on the Army. A Northern Army, moving fast through the land beyond the Wall, had no substantially artillery with which to face him. In Sansa’s ruined Kingdom of the North, with so many people dead from the invasion of the dead and the constant wars before, the cost of engines of war had been excessive. 

Now it all came together. Daenerys quietly slashed at her wrist with a Valyrian steel dagger. The blazing hot blood of the living fire in her veins, re-stoked by the Lord of Light, hissed. She used the magic with the invocation Shiera had shown her. As Elaena called forth Drogon’s fire with a cry of  _ “Dracarys!” _ , from behind her on her back, Daenerys stole the smoke from the flame, wreathed it around them in winds of power, and the arrows that were loosed by the archers of the North sailed wide. 

Drogon’s fire did not.

Many of these men had seen the dragons fight the dead. Now they faced a true, living, blazing dragon themselves: Drogon, said to be Balerion come again.  As Elaena swept across the field, nothing would touch them. The swirling wind was called forth by Valyrian magic, and even with the Princess fully concentrated on the battle below, Daenerys and Shiera together could well handle the task. And Drogon –  burned. Waves of heat radiated from his breath, even back to his neck and haunches. 

The column of flame slammed into the ground with explosive intensity. Pine trees, instantly superheated, exploded like glass balls of Wildfyre. Columns of Stark troops vanished into the flame.  That the Wildlings had been all but broken was ideal. It meant that the Stark troops were mostly concentrated along the front, advancing, without opposition in close quarters. The men of the other houses  of the North  died with them as the fire spread from tree to tree, body to body of men. 

H aving targeted the Stark banners first, Drogon gutted the centre of the Army. The ground rushing by, he pulled away through the smoke and flame, climbing and accelerating at the same time, until they were rushing over the ground at what seemed like incredible speed, sweeping around to be a symbol, to rally the Wildlings. 

They saw again the power of a dragon; both sides had watched them fight at Winterfell, but now they were by brutal fate pitted against each other, and it was the Wildlings who had the support of that singular great beast, that terrible power of the sky.  The Free Folk were perfectly capable of rallying, when they had such power on their side. Bands surged out on the flanks to attack the outriders of the Army of the North, raising a terrific shout as they rushed from the woods fringeing the battlefield, in which they had taken refuge. 

Smart commanders rallied their men to meet them in the woods, where they could not be discerned from their enemies from the air. Brave commanders stood in the centre with the men they could rally. But, much of the Army began to melt and disintegrate as now, inevitably, Drogon finished coming back around. 

“ _Dracarys_!” 

Hundreds of men died in the inferno. The flame cascaded through the defiles and snapped the trees into an instant firestorm. Metal melted to charred flesh, of men mercifully already dead. The Starks had finally faced the flames, more than three hundred years after the Conquest. And they, too, had been found wanting by the fire. Men ran in wanton disorder, trying to escape the flame in any way they could. Some threw themselves into the streams and the mud, surrounded by flame and choking smoke. A few of those in the deepest pools lived, but in most cases, the water was too shallow, and they died. Some tried to dig into the ground, and were overcome and died with the rushing flame. 

All around them, chaos had overtaken the battlefield. It was no longer a battle with lines and ranks of ordered men on the side of the North. Now those of them who still fought were reduced to the same war-bands as their enemies. And there were few of them who fought. Most were fleeing, trying to escape, a general rout of thousands. 

But the Free Folk were on their flanks. They would not  _ allow  _ them to escape. Some would make it miles, some would make it tens of miles. Many would not. Unencumbered by armour and used to the terrain, they moved fast through the Haunted Forest, tracking and pacing the fleeing men. Those who got the furthest would live the longest, but of those fleeing Northmen, those who got the furthest were also those who had cast aside their armour and weapons to run faster, and in the end, without food or provisions, and stalked in the forest, they were the ones who would die the fastest, helpless, at the leisure of the Free Folk. Those who died sooner in the rout, closer in, with their arms and weapons to make last stands, were probably in the best shape for a quicker and more sure death by arms. Few would return South of the Wall.

The tattered banners remained. In small knots and clusters they marked the form of a rout. Many of them had been burned, but the banners of Stark and Karstark still remained, fluttering, tattered and soot-streaked around small groups of men. Like a string of beads cut to spill out across the floor, they spilled in a random disorder toward the South, with little rises or defiles, ditches alongside creeks and copses of trees marking places where in the end they were cornered, brought to heel, and fought lonely last stands which would only be remembered in the feast-songs of the Free Folk who killed them, singing tribute to the men they had slain, the men who had given them arms and armour and a good haul of plunder. 

Now very few remained at the front. Drogon circled again. The destruction of the Northern Army had taken twenty minutes if it had taken any time at all; nothing more than that. But there toward the front, in the smoke and flame and soot, one woman on a horse stood with about three hundred soldiers around her. They fought against the Free Folk who had descended to attack them once more, and a single, half-burned Stark banner hung alongside. Her face dusky with soot, still, they all knew who she was. When the battle was over, in ruin and false hope and bitter defeat, Sansa Stark remained. 

Drogon settled to the ground with the awkwardness of a dragon landing, before her, in the wide-opened spaces created by the fire, the Free Folk edging away from his massive bulk.  Facing the band of Stark retainers and the Queen in the North, he chuffed smoke and then roared at them, men flinching like it was a mock execution as his mouth opened toward them. 

Then the small party of riders descended, all of them save the figure in full armour—Elaena, maintaining her position in the saddle, ready to lead Drogon in burning and tearing at any attempted attack.  As the party approached, Sansa dismounted from her horse—which was wounded, anyhow, but had remained standing, and who knew if it was the one she had started with—and one of her retainers presented her with a rag soaked in water from a flagon. She removed her helmet and cleaned her face with the cold water, presenting herself with dignity, soothing the searing heat of the inferno upon her skin which had suffered almost the equivalent of sunburn from the radiated heat, and then turned to face Daenerys. 

She took three steps toward her, and knelt. “It’s over, Your Grace,” she said softly, bitterly, tiredly, knowing what her fate was. “I am Sansa Stark, first and last Queen in the North. My reign ends today, my Kingdom is your’s.  You were reborn like the Phoenix, and I cannot stand against you, Your Grace, I have tried, I have failed, and now I suppose I will die. All I ask is that you spare my people your wroth, " she gestured towards her men. "There are women, too, in my camp. I would beg that they be spared as well."

_ In the end, it’s strange how people become courageous and magnanimous when all is lost,  _ Elaena thought.  _ She is a savage butcher, and an oppressor of her people. But her words are probably now sincere.  _ Sometimes hope was a cruel drug, the young Princess reflected. It drove people on to desperate acts, that they could accomplish something, and it was only in the hour of utter ruination that they regained their senses, and nobleness and charity again returned to their hearts and minds. Sansa had mustered dignity and grace—when all was lost. 

Val was coming up, now, with Ghost at her side. Sansa’s eyes briefly widened at seeing the Direwolf, but then she just groaned, softly. She could be heard to say, “Jon, too, of course,” with a shake of her head as she remained on her knees. 

“If she surrendered herself before the battle, I was going to sacrifice her at a sacred grove,” Val explained simply, "for the power to heal this land." 

“We have another plan,” Kinvara remarked, very calm in her red robes amidst the sea of destruction. Fires still raged, but this area was burned over and safe, so the victorious Free Folk were naturally congregating here, with all the plunder that they could find. “Her Majesty will soon leave to face the Great Other. Where is the Queen of Ice?” 

“She did not think she could ride a dragon, so she went further North again before the battle, to lay herself ready near the Vale of the Thenns. We have a real battle to fight, there.” 

“So we do,” Daenerys spoke at last, having been staring sharply at Sansa. “Val, will your men keep herself for me? Harm not a hair on her head?” 

“It would be hard to make that guarantee, Your Grace,” Val answered, still not familiar with the more exalted title from the east—but Daenerys held that no heed. She was in armour, and her mask looked as a part of it, there, and most impressive of all on her small frame was Blackfyre, strapped across her back as the only way for her to carry the sword, which she could only _hope_ to wield with two hands, even if a full-grown man could use the blade properly as a hand-and-a-half.

D aenerys nodded once. “Then she’ll have to come with us. I won’t have a shambles, not with a Queen, even one who has committed such crimes. Bind her, and bring her to Drogon. You will be coming with us. I want you to spare these men, and the women of the camp,” she told the wildling chieftans who had by now joined them. "See to it", concurred Val. Daenerys spared a glance for Drogon—he was  _ enormous,  _ second only to Balerion the Black Dread, but Dragons had to be large to fly at all—and six people,  even all of them being smaller women,  would press his ability to the limit (Balerion, according to the stories, might have managed eight,  even he could handle no more than that ). Still, Daenerys wanted someone who could access the magic of the Old Gods with them on this journey. 

And there were other reasons they might need Sansa Stark. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The flight was a slow struggle at low altitude. Drogon was clearly exhausted by the effort, after having rushed to the north with four riders, to then travel further north into the cold and thin polar air, with six. 

That night, while making camp in Drogon’s bulk, they were attacked by Wights.  A group of them advanced from the woods—dead Free Folk, those who didn’t advance in the Army which faced the Northmen. There were few Free Folk left in the whole world, though peasants fleeing Sansa’s regime had added to their numbers.

Now, there were fewer still. Whomever had sent them, though, had not counted on the presence of Shiera. Her eyes flashing in the darkness like a cat’s, she had stilled the conversation at the fire swiftly. Sansa stared in stunned shock as the Dead abruptly advanced. “ _ I thought they were all gone! _ ” 

Daenerys leapt to her feet, pointing toward the Wights. “ _ Dracarys!”  _

Drogon still responded to her as a son to a mother. He turned, following her finger, and levelled a quarter acre of forest with a wash of fire that radiated waves of heat over them, a draught of hot air in the night that guttered their own fire from the intensity of the roiling waves of convective heat. 

The group of wights vanished into the flames. 

Hand on the hilt of her Mantaryan Valyrian steel sword, Elaena, blade half drawn, swept her eyes warily in a circle around them, too late to intervene with this attack, but ready for another. Shiera, though, just shook her head. “That was all he had nearby.”

“ _He?_ Does the Night King live again!? Can he really be killed?” asked Sansa.

“Oh he was killed,” Kinvara’s eyes flashed contempt at Sansa. Behind her, Elaena stepped up to the fire, and by cutting her hand on the sword before sheathing it, and dripping blood into the flames, reignited it with the power of the Valyrian magic in her veins. 

“He was killed,” Kinvara continued, “but the Three-Eyed Raven has the power to create another Night’s King. What do you think his last line of defence is? We will have to face the dead when we reach his place of power.” 

“My own brother? What – what…”

“My own _lover_!” Shiera exclaimed, turning to her in contempt. “The same monster took him, and ruined him, and you have heard them speak my name and so you know well what I mean.” 

“Bloodraven.” Sansa closed her eyes. 

“This creature offers knowledge and power, but it possesses those who take its offer. The dark power that it holds is in fact the legacy of the Child of the Forest who first bargained with the Great Other who exists in the Darkness Between the Stars, an unfathomable power of which this is a _single tendril,_ ” Shiera explained with her voice cold. “Their essence is utterly annihilated, and you already know this, you just don’t want to admit it in your heart. As I did not, for a very long time, I wanted to believe I could _save_ him. I sacrificed my womanhood and ultimately my mortal life to remain youthful not out of a lust for beauty but my love for him. But in the end there was no saving him; what I found in Asshai made this clear. He is gone, and now his physical form is gone, too, but the poison he put into this land remains, the entity behind his power remains and is in your brother too, Sansa Stark, and like me, if you really care, you will seek one thing and one thing only. Take your vengeance.” 

Sansa sank back down before the fire, once again blazing bright, and looked with the exhausted hopelessness of a doomed woman at Daenerys. Daenerys’ flinty expression under the mask gazed right back, and at last, she shrugged. “While I can promise you nothing else, you will participate in avenging your brother’s possession by this monster, when this journey is done. When all else is gone and there is no more hope, is it not at least some comfort?” 

Sansa looked into her eyes, acknowledged the plain truth of it with a single jerk of her head, and wondered, inside, just what that foretold for her. She knew too much of the world to believe this graciousness would, in the end, spare her life. 

The Empress was simply not going to be uncivilised about it. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was late evening on the second day when they approached the Vale of the Thenns; even with a long rest the night before,  after the night of the Wight attack after leaving the battlefield, Drogon was exhausted, and so were all the riders, crammed together and tied by chains to each other. It was a rather uncomfortable way to travel, the better that fate and fortune had it they were all women to spare each other embarrassment. 

I n the evening’s light, as they swept over the Vale of the Thenns, they could see quite the commotion. A large cluster of men seemed as if they were in battle. An icy fear gripped Sansa’s heart. “That seems like no Army or troop of Men, but I understood the Vale had been peopled again.” 

“They are not men but wights,” Shiera answered. “The Great Other found a new Night’s King, we know that from the night afore last. This was the largest population centre close to his place of power. I’m afraid…”

These were the people that Sansa had tried to send as slaves to Essos. They had escaped into freedom, as any brave and proud man of the North, or even the women and children, would try to do. Sansa had been the author of their suffering a fate worse than death. She frozen, silent, on Drogon’s back.  _ You heard what Val said over the camp-fire. It was Jon that led them here, not you! If they had settled somewhere further south they would have fought with the Free Folk, they would not be here. This was Jon’s fault, not your’s! He’s always been an idiot, when he knew about the Great Other being here, he should have evacuated them to Hardholm!  _

It was a last, desperate attempt to justify herself. 

“Not all hope is lost!” Elaena exclaimed as they swung down and closer. “Come and look, see, look at those beasts fighting them! There are men among them and – God have mercy, I see your Night’s Queen, Lady Val!” 

Val laughed at being called a Lady by the Valyrian Princess, but it was true. 

“The Night’s Queen,” Daenerys’ eyes glinted. “Yes, there are men with her, and those…”

“Those are spiders of ice,” Sansa whispered. “As Old Nan used to tell in her stories. But they’re fighting _against_ the Wights?” 

“It’s the Night’s Queen who commands them, not whomever the Night’s King is.” Shiera surmised. “Elaena, can you give fire without imperilling them?” 

“Yes, certainly.” Now well experienced in dragon conflict, Elaena took her whip, and urged Drogon, exhausted, to one more effort. He swept in from behind the Night’s Queen, and she looked up with her gleaming blue eyes on her icy body, to see the promised fire, that she had waited for, and slept for, for _thousands_ of years, coming to join her and fulfil the prophecy. From above and behind and over her army, high enough not to threaten the ice spiders she had summoned, for all that she might be the last of her kind, she was still a _power_ in the North, came the fire. 

The light of Drogon’s flames reflected off the crystalline refraction from the bodies of living ice of the Spiders and the Night’s Queen alike. It ripped through the Army of the dead. The bodies of the recently slain burned just as well as those of the living. The Night’s Queen, with a triumphant smirk, gave a silent command, and pulled her Army back. 

She swept back and forth, determined and unyielding, burning again, and again, and again. Elaena and Drogon brought his fire down to Earth, and tamed and directed it with Valyrian magic, blood dripping, hissing on his scales that were so hot against the cold of the night, whilst the fire made the ice-spiders and the ice-queen seem to glow in the dark of the night. The raging fires consumed the twice-cursed village and with it and all of the Army of Wights that could be seen. 

The small band which had survived to fall back and fight alongside their most unlikely of allies, watched in awe and wonder, salvation and relief, as Drogon dropped down, triumphant, whilst from the top of the Vale above, where the glacier and the Power lurked in the unending snows, a terrific cracking noise, a creaking and groaning roared through the air. 

“Your Grace,” declared their leader, as he saw Daenerys descend, smoke and guttering fire behind her, Drogon behind her, and the others following, all save Elaena.

Then, he stood aside, for someone more important than him had come to treat. “The Queen of Ice greets the Queen of Fire,” she laughed, her voice, like broken ice grinding over itself, echoing as the tall and beautiful creature of living ice, in robes of what seemed like woven, moving ice, now, presented herself, standing at her full height, before Daenerys. “You have finally come.” 

Daenerys unfixed her mask, and lowered it slowly to the ground. “All that is left of the fire of Valyria, which I think was destroyed by the wiles and quietly laid plots of this monster, is here at your side today.  May I have your name, Royal Sister? You know mine, I think.”

“I do, Empress Daenerys. I am T’namehta. Let your heiress not forget it,” she nodded to Elaena, “for even if all my people are gone from the North, I will not then be forgotten.” 

Daenerys looked back to Elaena, and nodded once. “She and her heirs in turn will keep it forever.  What do we need to do,  Royal Sister ?” 

“We must have a blade strong enough to break it down. End the cycles,” the Night’s Queen’s voice rumbled. “There was something cold in the Last Hero’s blade. But not something hot.” 

“I brought Blackfyre.” She hefted the awkward blade from her back and presented it to the Night’s Queen. “But I am not sure that I can wield such a sword.”

“You are not striving against a normal foe, but a magical power. You can wield it. But the fire must be tempered.” 

Daenerys sucked in her breath.  She turned around toward her party, and Sansa went as stiff as a board. 

“No, no, I will not. I will not be the sacrifice.” 

“Someone willing,” the Night’s Queen rasped, and turned away from Sansa. “Even if you talked her into it, she would have reservation in her heart. She doesn’t want to die and she especially doesn’t want to die for you, Fire Queen.” 

“I’ll fight, but I am not a pig to be gutted,” Sansa answered defiantly. 

“I…” Daenerys started to speak, but trailed off as Drogon leapt into the air, with no further warning. There was another set of booming sounds, and Shiera dashed up to them, her vision in the night giving her warning. “Something awful, Your Majesty, the mountain moves!”

The Night’s Queen directed her gaze to the north with the others. “The glacier moves. He has unbound it down the valley.” She raised her hand, and with it, gleaming in the darkness of the night, shards of ice wrenched out from the ground and valleys, ice-lenses squeezed out of the permafrost by her power, flung themselves into a wall that the massive avalanche slammed into, as powerful magic arced in the air, skin tingling and overwhelmed. The surviving men, for all the sorcery they had yet witnessed that day, were still terrified of if, and with good cause, for nobody there had seen anything like that raw power put to the service of anyone. 

Then fire joined the battle, as Drogon’s flames ripped into the avalanche. A wall of steam was highlighted by the light of his fire in the midst of the night, and the huge mass of ice, moving downhill at the same speed that a dragon could fly, was for the moment choked, blocked, ice against ice, ice against fire. The wall, the column of steam rose through the air and carved a massive chunk from the avalanche, watching it cascade around them, like a river parted around a rock. Torrents of water flowed around them too, sweeping away all that remained of human habitation in the cursed valley of the Thenns. 

But a dragon could not give fire forever. Drogon swept away on the wing, moving, exhausted even now with a single rider, his flame’s breath having done as much as it could in that moment for his mother’s cause. 

Then Daenerys and Shiera loosed their blood to the Earth before them. The Queen of the Night laughed wildly, madly. She had waited for this battle for thousands of years. Her cackle like the breaking of the glacier before them, they pitted their power against each other as the stars began to go out above them, and a strange black blanket of silence descended, dampening the noises around all of them. Drogon swung about, ice and water now all along the position of their little band. 

The hot blood that splashed down brought forth power—wind in the air. A terrible strong wind, a wind out of the south, a warm wind blowing up the vale. Together, Shiera and Daenerys sang the song which Shiera had taught:

“We are the daughters of the storm, we are the children of fire. We are the women of the Freehold, and our song is the tempest, our blood is fire. That which is freely given, breathes the roar of life into all things!” 

In tornadoes whirling around them, the flood-waters of melted ice were driven back by the power of the wind only, while Drogon returned, to burn and flash water and ice to steam. On a little island in a river of flowing debris and water and snow, with the water fast rising around them, they stood, and battled with magic, as the power in that black rock loosed down upon them the whole of the glacier. 

“ _I need blood! Powerful Blood! Royal Blood! Nothing else will do! What is in my veins is common, the fire is guttered in the undead!”_ Shiera screamed at Daenerys through the pitch-black power which was sucking even the noise out of the air as they held forth their storms against Him. 

“Take her, but spare her life!” 

Sansa had no time to complain; snarling, fangs showing, eyes flashing in the light of Drogon’s flames, Shiera descended on her and tore at her neck. From the most ancient of times the blood of a Sovereign, a King or a Queen, had been held to have the greatest of ritual and ceremonial power, and it was for that good reason that Val had wanted to sacrifice her, but this, this would have to do. The energy within her was pulled out, enhanced in the moment, claimed by Shiera, and greedily used the moment it entered her belly, energising her magic, making up for the fact that neither her nor Daenerys truly lived as mortals did. 

The waters of the glacier parted, and flowed away with the remnant chunks of ice, leaving great bergs stranded on the ruined land. Abruptly, the power behind it faded away; the last of the stars, instead, went out, as the whole veil of darkness came cascading down upon them. 

T’namehta laughed once more, and then turned keenly to the rest of the band, her voice hollow and flat against the power around them. “Quickly, now, you don’t have much time. You know you don’t.” 

Kinvara stepped forward, humming, gently. “She’s not willing, but I am. No Queen, but born a slave and now a High Priestess, what more can be said for my life, Your Majesty? I have brought you back, I caused you to free Essos, and now here I stand, obedient to the commands of my Lord, on the evening when the battle between Light and Darkness will be decided. I represent the willingness of all those who would die for you. Do it, now, while there is still time. You are Azor Ahai, you are the Prince Who Was Promised.” 

Daenerys closed her eyes. “You brought me back to life, and now you want me to take your’s? I would kill Sansa Stark a thousand times over before you, Kinvara!” 

“Your Majesty, I am willing.” 

Elaena circled with Drogon, and prepared to land alongside of them, knowing that the only way for anyone to reach the Black Stone now, through the mud and massive chunks of ice and ruined vale, would be by air, and she could already feel a strange pressure, through the magic that Shiera had taught her, pressing down upon her soul when she flew higher, like it was constricting against them. “Your Majesty, we don’t have much time! It’s like the whole valley is being snuffed out by this power! It’s engulfing us and the higher I go the stronger it is, and it’s growing stronger by the minute! Please, now, hurry!” 

Daenerys turned back to Kinvara, holding Blackfyre in both hands. “You will be remembered forever,” she whispered, and plunged the blade into the woman’s breast. As it struck through her, Daenerys felt an impossible surge of power in her own body. Despite her smallness, she felt immensely powerful in that moment, easily able to wield the blade, which as it was withdrawn from Kinvara, glowed with a brilliant red light from within. 

With Shiera and Val at her side, they raced to Drogon, and at once took flight. Sansa had served, unwillingly, but she had served. Valar Dohaeris. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was five minutes up the valley, if anything at all, a straight line over utter ruination.  They carried on toward the North, the heights of the mountain, toward what had once been the glacier. Untouched in the midst of it, they could feel the blackness much more than they could see it. Blood ran freely now, and Shiera twisted her power through it, and held back the darkness from Drogon as they approached. But it was rushing in, descending, constricting around the rock, a sphere of anti-power, of coldness and emptiness, growing tighter and tighter around them. 

In the end, Drogon was forced down before the Black Rock, and they stumbled down from his back, onto the bare rock of the mountain which had been scoured clean by the hideous power unleashed against them in an attempt to defeat their effort. 

With Blackfyre across her back, Daenerys pushed on, scrambling over the rock. Val and Shiera covered her from behind, right up until the moment that the Night’s King, whatever luckless man or faithless Black Brother or even Southron that Bran, that the Three-Eyed Raven, had turned to the task—was there, behind them, moving with hideous speed and determination. 

Shiera, a dagger drawn in each hand, flung herself without hesitation against the Night’s King. “Hear me through your slave, you are done!” She screamed, directed at the Three-Eyed Raven and not the monster who stood before her. 

The two of them toppled down, falling and sliding on the wet rock, striking blow after blow to each other. The shards of ice he stabbed into Shiera did not kill her, but nor could she land a blow with Valyrian steel against him; he was too quick. 

Drogon’s fire was unleashed by Elaena into the air. The light shone off all of them, and for a moment, distracted the two from their battle. The dragon’s fire curled against a magical shield, a black solid sphere descending onto the land around them, and the raw power, the fire, the light, the intensity of the living magic of a Dragon—held it back from its course. The sphere of blackness ceased to constrict. The girl, blood dripping from her slashed wrists, stood in the saddle and helped pit her dragon against the blackness itself, holding back the utter annihilation of them to give more time for Daenerys to reach the stone. Fire pitted against the cold blackness of the Darkness Between the Stars. 

With a dragon-glass dagger in hand, Val now joined the attack upon the Night’s King, in utter desperation. He kicked Shiera off and spun with lethal force—a blow with one of the shards that tore instantly straight through Val’s chest. With Shiera spun at least ten paces clear by the force of his last blow, he rose up, smirking, as Val staggered back, mortally wounded, and dropped to her knees. 

The Night’s King laughed as he watched Val die, and turned back to meet Shiera, rising again with a furious power to direct her daggers against him. He drove her back, wounding her again and again. In a moment, he left her staggering backwards, stabbed a dozen times, though not yet destroyed, for the sake of the power of Valyrian blood magic by which her life was sustained. Old, slow-moving blood oozed from her wounds, and despite the damage, she rose to face him again. 

He contemptuously turned away from her staggering walk, slicked by her own blood, and turned to make haste to pursue Daenerys. As he did, he shifted a single hand, and with a flick of his power, began to call Val back to life to serve him as a Wight, and detain the brutal wounded Shiera for long enough to finish off Azor Ahai.

But Val had dropped dead on her knees, in front of the cave-grotto of the Old Gods. They would not leave their servant so quickly, as ill-used as they had been for so many thousands of years by the plots and schemes of the Three-Eyed Raven and the insidious, corrupting power of the Great Other.  Though she was dead, she rose … But not as a Wight—as a living sacrifice to the Gods of her ancestors, who did not abandon her in her last act of courage. 

Her eyes had a human fire in them one more time, as she lunged up, and slammed her dragon-glass blade into the breast of the monster. He staggered back, all the power of the Great Other fed into him to keep him alive, to keep him fighting, against the frozen fire within his breast.

“The sword of desperation,” Shiera whispered, and did not fail to take advantage of the attack, mustering what was left of the energy in Sansa’s blood within her to rise and attack one more time. She lunged forward with an unnatural speed, and plunged one of her Valyrian steel daggers into his back, straight to his heart, and like the Night’s King before, he disintegrated at her single firm strike. 

But around them, Shiera could  _ feel  _ Drogon’s power fading. Each breath between each flame he took, the sphere of darkness descended closer upon them. And he was breathing hard, the fires within pushed to the limit in this task, magic against magic. She turned to see wither Daenerys. From the other end of the valley, blue fire glowed, ice-fire, the Night's Queen's magic, holding back the black sphere, holding back the death of the Darkness Between the Stars, as best she could--balanced, fire and ice--giving all the time they could for the work of Azor Ahai to be done.  


Azor Ahai was staggered before the yawing power of the Great Other. She could doubtless see, as even from that distant Shiera dimly could, the screaming echo of countless worlds who had fallen to it before. They would not, they could not kill it that night. Perhaps nobody could kill it, ever. 

But they could banish it from this planet forever. The glowing red blade rose, Daenerys, inexpertly but with an unnatural strength, brought it down. Blackfyre shattered upon the stone. 

The stone shattered into dust. 

The sphere of the darkness vanished into the night. 

Drogon keened and sank down to the rock in utter exhaustion. 

The night’s sky was full of stars. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The servants had been in a panicked horror when they summoned Tyrion. Apparently, nobody could rouse the King, and with a chill fear in his heart, Tyrion had made haste to his side. 

He was confronted with the King, tipped over to one side in his wheelchair, with a blank, vacant expression in his eyes, less than even an animal would have, in fact, it was absolutely nothing, with drool dripping from his mouth. 

The servants milled around in aghast horror, not knowing what to do, too terrified by their unnatural King to even dare to try and help him. 

Tyrion’s heart sank. He knew he was doomed now. The only question was how. 

They had failed. The last attack had certainly failed; the Imperial fleet had easily seen off their descent by night on the anchorages at Dragonstone. Drogon had not returned. 

Daenerys had gone north.

And the Three-Eyed Raven was dead. 

It was over. 


	25. Noblesse Oblige

Tyrion could almost smell the panic now, in the Red Keep. Half the city’s population were dead or fled, the rest would tear him limb from limb if they could. King Brandon was a vegetable. The entirety of the Reach, the Stormlands, and Dorne were lost, along with most of the Crownlands. Dozens of their men deserted each day, most notably Grand Maester Tarly, now languishing in the black cells. They had caught him attempting to flee from the city, two days ago, disguised as a washerwoman. There were rumours that Queen Sansa had marched North of the Wall. If she were defeated, her Tully and Arryn relatives would hardly stand firm in a lost cause.

The war was lost, and Tyrion could only expect a dreadful end. No, it was time to make good his escape. There was at least someone he knew, a ship’s captain who had registered his vessels in Braavos. The Republic’s vessels were allowed safe passage by the Imperial navy. He had offered the man a fortune, half paid up front, to get him out of Kings Landing. The man intended a voyage to Ib. Surely that was far enough away from the wroth of Daenerys Targaryen. If necessary, he’d keep running East to Mussovy or beyond. So, now he found himself standing in a cave, underneath the Red Keep, waiting to be smuggled on board the waiting ship. The same cave, had he but known it, that Ser Davos and Brienne had met in years ago. He heard sounds, as men approached, sailors presumably.

“Lord Tyrion” called the ship’s captain softly, “We’re here for you.” Thank the Gods! He emerged from behind a rock to find the captain and half a dozen sailors. And then, a grinning Bronn Stokeworth appeared out of the gloom, with four of his own men. “You’re escaping too?” he asked, astonished.

“Err, no, Tyrion.” Bronn laughed. The captain laughed. The soldiers and sailors laughed.

“I said the same thing to the other one all those years ago, what was his name? Davos, that’s it. He wanted to escape to Volantis. "Loyalty on my part costs a great deal more than you can ever afford.” Oh gods, he had no idea this was the man who betrayed Davos! Allyrion had never told him the man’s name. The captain laughed again, and disappeared with his men.

“Now then, what are we going to do with you, Tyrion?” He saw that the men had drawn their swords.

“Bronn, can’t you see it’s all hopeless, we have to get away? You too! We can take plenty of treasure, and flee to the East. We can't hope to defeat the Dragon Bitch, now. “

“Oh, I can see it's hopeless, but I reckon her Majesty has a long reach. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. At least, not when there’s a better option. Secure him!” he commanded. One of the men produced a set of manacles. “Don’t struggle, Tyrion, you’ll only make it harder for yourself.” He felt his arms dragged behind his back, and then the manacles snapped tight about his wrists. “Shall we return?” said Bronn. One of the men prodded him with his sword. They began the weary climb back up the steps, to the Red Keep. He made another attempt to persuade the man;

“Bronn, this is madness. We’re a team. We work better together. If you want to make a last stand, well, I can help you.”

“I wasn’t thinking of last stands, Tyrion. Before I came down here, I put what was left of Bran the Broken out of his misery. You’ll find those of us who are left are all loyal Dragon men, now, and I'll thank you not to call her Majesty a bitch. The banner of the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms flies over the Red Keep, even as we speak. But, of course, she’ll need some scapegoats. They had reached an iron gate, which Bronn unlocked, opening into the lowest level of the Red Keep. “Keep going.” He was prodded forward again with a sword. They ascended up to the main courtyard. “I think you need some time to reflect on the error of your ways, Tyrion. I can think of nowhere better than the Black Cells. You remember them of course. You were blamed for Joffrey’s death, and you wanted me to fight for you. You offered me a large part of the North. Maybe I should have taken you up on it, but I’ll settle for a lot less this time. My life.”

They had reached the Tower of the Hand, and Bronn led the way, before descending to its depths. “My life, but not yours. I think Daenerys Targaryen will welcome a gift of you and Tarly, and some of the other rogues, from men who were always on her side in truth, and just waiting for the chance to turn against the Raven.”

“You bastard,” muttered Tyrion. “You have shit for honour!” Bronn roared with laughter.

“Now you’re getting it. I said as much to Lady Arryn, when Vardis Egan went out through the Moon Door. Now, he had honour, and look where it got him. Splattered to a pulp across the rocks.. You should have remembered. And, let’s face it, if you had half the wits you claim, you’d have struck first and handed me over to the Empress. The only problem is, you’ve betrayed so many, no one would believe you.” They had reached a thick, wooden, cell door. “Don’t think I’m a monster, Tyrion. I won’t leave you on your own down here. You can share a nice cell with Tarly. And, he’s dressed as a woman too, so if you’re feeling a bit horny, well, you can get him to pleasure you. Or you can take turns pleasuring each other, I’m open-minded about these things.” He turned the key in the lock, and the door swung open. The cell stank of night soil and stagnant water. In the gloom he saw a figure stirring, before it began to whimper. As his eyes adjusted to the glimmer, Tyrion saw that a chain attached to a rivet in the wall was fastened to pair of fetters that secured Tarly's ankles.

“With your hands free, Tarly, you can jerk him off whenever you want. He can pleasure you with his mouth in turn. “ Tarly began to weep, silently. A soldier attached one end of a length of chain to Tyrion's fetters, before fixing the other end to another rivet in the Wall.

“Well, they don’t seem so happy about it, after all, “ remarked Bronn to his men. “But I’ve seen love blossom in the harshest environments, truly, it warms my heart.” The others sniggered.

“Well, goodbye, my lord. I’m sorry our long partnership has to end like this, but you’ll understand, I’ve got to look out for number one. “ He exited the cell with his men, whistling, and then the door slammed shut, leaving the two of them in the darkness.

* * *

In the years that had passed by since Daenerys Stormborn had last been within this city, much had taken place, and many of the Smallfolk had died. Many more had fled, to anywhere that would take them, and of the new arrivals, carried on the winds of war, many more had just died. The city had never truly been rebuilt. Just more slums.

“The Citadel, the Walls, they were Visenya’s really,” Shiera was explaining to Daenerys. “She was an architect and handled most of the construction, while Aegon concerned himself with the realms. She also plotted the sewers and water supply, but in the end only the Red Keep and the villas immediately around it were fitted before her death, and the city has been poorer for it.”

“The smell is as bad as Astapor,” Elaena nodded. She had put Drogon down in the ruins of the Dragonpit, and the column of the Empress’ party had made its way there, before proceeding with Elaena as the Princess and Heir, toward the Red Keep. They had recovered Sansa, treated her neck wound, then flown South by easy stages. Some in the city cheered her, most, even, but particularly those from the poorest districts. Some of the others were much more afraid, especially merchants who may have profited from trading slaves during the Three-Eyed Raven’s regime. They had heard _many_ stories, and the Three-Eyed Raven’s agents had tried their best to encourage every one of them. But at the hour of conquest, they rang hollow, since they were not already dead, the city not already a slagged cinder. That helped. Unfortunately, many of the Three-Eyed Raven’s lickspittle Priests had been whipping up the arrival of Daenerys as a conquest by the Army of the Lord of Light (which was not exactly false), and so the reception was decidedly cool among some. Imperial soldiers had landed at the docks and were filing into the city. A picked body of Unsullied had joined the Empress’s party.

“Do not judge it too much,” Daenerys spoke smoothly, taking the situation in stride. She had long since learned not to hold against the Smallfolk what they had been deceived into believing by the Lords who were truly guilty. “It was my family’s city, and we are all used to it, from campaign. It will be your city someday, and the better you keep it, the finer these lands will be.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean…”

“I like baths and running water as well,” Daenerys replied. If Elaena tried hard enough, she could imagine the Empress smiling under her mask.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” A cheer went up for Daenerys, and she raised her hand to acknowledge it, as they made their way up Aegon’s High Hill. Their banner was already waving over the Red Keep, after all.

The Red Keep. Bran’s Government had restored it, and repaired it, and made it whole, for necessity of the function of government, at least. It loomed now above them, the gates thrown open, the Targaryen banner hanging off of it. They rode onwards through the gates, at a slow and steady walking pace that allowed the Unsullied to occupy the Gatehouse before they proceeded into the courtyard.

Elaena quietly looked around at the red walls, the signs of the new repairs using red bricks which had filled out and completed the castle after the previous damage and destruction. Everyone could clearly see the points where the walls had been replaced and repaired, the different shades of red, and Daenerys, she could see, was staring long and hard and quietly at them.

At length, a party came down from Maegor’s Holdfast, with a Targaryen banner. The man in the middle attracted Yara’s attention as she came up to Daenerys’ side. She pointed to him. “Bronn Stokeworth, Your Majesty. The Master of Coin, later commander of the Armies, and Lord Warden of the Reach.”

“A rogue if ever there was one,” Daenerys murmured. “He’s carrying something, Yara.”

“Yes he is.” Yara peered sharply, with a good sailor’s fine eyes. She wouldn’t have the reputation as a Captain that she did without her keen eyesight. “A head, Your Majesty.”

“This will be interesting.”

“Shall I intercept him, Your Majesty?” Elaena asked.

“No, let him come and speak to me.” A tight knot of Unsullied was all around them, ready to deal with the situation if there was a requirement. Certainly the man who had raised the Targaryen banner and thrown open the gates would not be an immediate threat—but the general sense of the entire party was that he was a rogue and a traitor, as Yara had suggested.

Daenerys and her thoughts remained inscrutable behind the mask, and in this moment that was probably exactly how she wanted it. Bronn and his guards approached, and with a flourish, he bowed, and then thrust the head up into the air before her. “Your Majesty, the City of King’s Landing, at your pleasure as your capital. I killed the usurper Brandon Stark on your behest, Your Majesty.” Sansa gave a cry of dismay.

“Lord Bronn,” Daenerys began, “I recall that you were long the loyal right hand of the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, the sometimes Hand, sometimes General and sometimes Minister of the Pretender whose head you now hold. I know, too, as you also know, that you hold the head of a crippled boy, whose only crime was coming into the power of a fiendish monster and enemy, who did not enact these evil designs by his own will. We have heard from the people of the city that he was insensate, and thus a harm to no-one. Though I may have had him killed, for his own good and mercy, and for the safety of the realms, lest that power still attend to him—that was my decision to make, and not your’s.”

Bronn paled, and he dropped the head and bowed again. “Your Majesty, I have given you this city without a fight. I ask only for a pardon; I will return to being a common soldier forthwith. Tarly, the Imp and the others are in the black dungeons.”

“What of Allyrion the spymaster?”

“He aided me.”

“In seizing a city from a drooling moron, a witless, unthinking boy? How hard was it, Bronn? And here, you have dropped a head which was that of the rightful Lord of the North before this evil power took him, down onto the stones—I will not permit such a disgrace to good blood. Unsullied, seize him!”

They rushed forward, grabbing Bronn and holding him in his place with his sword but a quarter drawn before firm hands grasp him, and three spear-points were at his neck.

“My regime is based on freedom, rights and compassion, not on hypocrisy and lies and rewards for traitors. Once a traitor—always. These men shall betray me if we suffer them to live, my loyals. Princess Elaena, sweep the palace, stop them from flight or any further acts of destruction or hiding their crimes. Secure the prisoners!”

Elaena saluted in the Valyrian style. “Your Majesty! Unsullied of the fourth company, to me!” She swung down from her horse, drawing her sword, and dashed ahead. They barely had enough time; two archers opened fire from Maegor’s Holdfast and they tried to lower the doors, but the Unsullied rammed iron bars into the mechanism and jammed it first. A small group of men tried to escape into the tunnels, who had been paid; the spear-men made short of work of them, and Elaena with the group had recourse to her sword, drawing blood with it for a rare occasion, in the military career of a woman who burned her Empress’ enemies from dragonback.

But this was, Lord willing, the end of the wars. Reaching the upper levels of the Holdfast, they found Allyrion, the Spymaster, his pulse disappearing with the last of a powerful and fast-acting poison. He had seen Bronn’s fate, and quickly moved to avoid being taken prisoner himself, using a last number of well-paid and recklessly foolish catspaws to buy time.

The pounding heart, the sudden rush of killing fever, the quick work of the Old Guards that the Unsullied now were. It was all done, and it was done. Perhaps there would be resistance elsewhere, but if there was, they would be fools and damned fools. Westeros was their’s, too.

Three Crowns.

* * *

The ravens had gone out soon after they had taken Westeros. In the meantime, Elaena had been put to the task of cleaning up the city by Daenerys. She had had sewers dug down the middle of the streets, a work which was ongoing, connecting into the sewers built by Septon Barth long ago. The cisterns and wells on Aegon’s High Hill and at the Dragonpit and around the burned ruins of the Great Sept were repaired. The Septries around the Great Sept and the Great Sept itself having been destroyed, the cisterns there and the wells on the hills could be combined, and used to supply several fountains in a ring around the hill, which now became a source of clean water for the city. Most of it was temporary, and would have to be replaced with brick and stone in the years following, but it was a good way to keep the Army busy now that the fighting was over.

Westeros, like Essos, was ruined by war. Daenerys had taken measures to quickly improve the economic situation, though; she had allowed the Summer Islanders and Braavosi, who strongly supported her, to carry goods between ports inside of the Three Empires, without paying duties, and only charging them when they brought in goods from without. This provided a ready merchant fleet for the internal commerce of the Empire, and despite the devastation, and the internal collapse in Essos from the end of the slave trade, the end of port duties when ships were in cabotage between the different cities of Daenerys’ Empires had resulted in quick improvements in the prosperity of the people, and now it was hoped that the extension of her reign to Westeros would bring the same benefits; but, they had only been there for two months, and for the moment, miserable poverty was the rule in King’s Landing, though with the city so empty from so many deaths, Elaena had arranged to pay the poor to pull down old wooden buildings and shanties, so that the risk of fire was lessened, and had instead provided them with buildings once owned by the rich who had supported Bran’s regime, and who now languished in the cells. The conversion of these buildings to tenements had at least provided housing. Sansa, deeply upset by the sight of her brother’s severed head, had been taken under close guard to the Maidenvault, where she was held in custody. Criminal and traitor though she was, it would not be seemly to confine a lady of high birth, who had been a Queen, to the Black Cells. Shiera pointed out that Alicent Hightower had been treated similarly, by Queen Rhaenyra, when captured.

The news having gone out through the realms, by about ten weeks after they had occupied King’s Landing, ships arrived from Dorne, bearing representatives of the Prince. Among them was a wonderfully pretty and lean woman, Lady Gwyneth Yronwood, who attracted some instant attention, particularly from Yara, which the Empress took pleasure in teasing her about, but nothing more. Yara, for her part, made no move toward her—she was faithful to Daenerys—but indulged in the humour of it.

Dornish were, after all, Dornish. Elaena, in truth, found their attitudes more normal than those of the Westerosi. As an aristocrat behind the Black Walls, she had considerable freedom, and her education had included the works of romance and sexuality of old Valyria, which in the upper classes had been quite open.

But she wrote her letters to Maekar in Lys, and she spent her nights with Jon. The stupid bastard was trying to be a good lover, but always got guilty about _having sex_ with her, which was a level of prudery she could not imagine. _You are a nobleman, an affair or two should seem normal to you._ Still, in his ready earnestness, there was a certain endearing quality, and Elaena’s opinion of him had softened, some.

Now, Elaena watched the audience between the representatives of the Dornish, and the Empress.

“Your Majesty’s triumphs and signal victories have destroyed the regime we faced; we freed our own land from bondage, however, Your Majesty,” Gwyneth was saying. “We will renew our pledge of allegiance as was given by Ellaria Sand during her regime, even though the current Prince does not recognise her acts, on the understanding that it is freely done by a free people. We also have a stipulation.”

“They call me the Queen of the Free,” Daenerys answered. “Our Imperial Edict is to accept this term, without reservation. It is Our intent to reorganise Westeros. The High Lordships of the Westerlands, Riverlands, and the Vale are abolished forever. The Lord Wardens there will be men of repute, appointed by the Crown, and serving at the pleasure of the Sovereign. But, I shall recognise the Hightower and the collateral branches of the Tyrell as High Lords, and the ruler of the North, too—and Dorne shall have a Prince, with the widest freedom. We will pardon Lord Gendry, for his quick revolt, when circumstances prevented; and because he sincerely thought me dead, and was yet uneducated, and ill-served by his Maester. I shall gladly accept your stipulation and give it, along with half of the Dornish Marches, as a boon to the Prince of Dorne.”

Even Lady Gwyneth seemed surprised at the staggering scale of the abolition of three High Lordships, and half-choked at the idea of Dorne being given half the Marches to rule; or the fact that Daenerys granted her stipulation without hearing it. “What does Your Majesty intend to do so that she may rule these lands she will place directly under the crown?”

“Many Lordships are forfeit, and they shall remain so. We will place them under Intendants to be administered for the prosperity of the people there, and the wealth of the Crown. We will organise Circles, administered by Judges, Priests and Maesters and other men of quality, to oversee the Lords of each one of the Realms of the Crown, with Justiciars to enforce the law under them, and the rights of pits and gallows reserved to the Crown in all the High Lordships that are abolished.”

“You will take Aegon the Fifth’s reforms, and complete them, Your Majesty,” Gwyneth observed, regaining her composure.

“But not in Dorne. You may keep your own customs and laws, in full, and apply them as you see fit to the lands in the Marches that you are given; they all belong to Lords Attaindered. We will grant all the old customs and privileges, and increase them. What is your boon, Lady Gwyneth?”

She smiled, then, a hungry thing. “Your Majesty is kind, and the ancient friendship of our peoples, since the age of King Daeron, is forever renewed. Our stipulation is that nothing can change the stain of blood. We know that you are merciful, Your Majesty, but except for those whom we refer to mercy, we expect that blood will be washed clean with blood, in the case of those who scoured Dorne.”

Daenerys listened, and nodded once, and turned to her scribes. “Record that We have agreed to the Dornish terms. We will not provide mercy or pardons to those convicted of crimes against the Dornish.”

 _The Imp,_ Elaena thought, and couldn’t help a nasty smirk.

* * *

Yara Greyjoy had long anticipated this trial. Along with Princess Elaena, Lady Shiera, Archmaesters Valyn and Marwyn of the Citadel, Daario Naharis, Grey Worm, Ser Daemon Sand, and Lord Leyton Hightower, she had joined the Empress as part of a panel of judges, three at a time, trying and sentencing the traitors, who had served the Three-Eyed Raven. Over the course of several weeks, more than three hundred had been sentenced to death , and more awaited trial. Most had been executed by hanging or beheading, the worst offenders by burning, impalement, or drowning in sacks. Some had been acquitted, or received lighter sentences. The Prince of Dorne, for example, had written on behalf of Lord Brynden Tully, who had briefly served as Hand to the King, yet had punished his soldiers’ excesses in Dorne. Therefore, his sentence had been commuted to exile, along with his nephew, Lord Edmure. The Tully lands however, were forfeit to the Crown, along with those of the Starks, Arryns, Royces, and other lords who had supported the regime.

She wished that Jon Snow was facing this tribunal as a defendant, but this day, an even greater monster would appear before her, Daenerys, and Archmaester Valyn, in the Great Hall. She couldn’t resist a smile as it was dragged in from the Black Cells, hands bound in iron fetters, bearded and filthy, wicked little tree stump that it was. Most of the trials took less than an hour, but this would take more than a day, so extensive was the list of its crimes. A notary from Oldtown presented the charges; multiple counts of treason, from the time that the Empress had made him her Hand in Meereen; conspiracy to murder her; murder of prisoners; unlawful torture of prisoners; murder of the inhabitants of Dorne, the Iron Islands, and Kings Landing; multiple counts of rape of women who had whored themselves to save their loved ones, and enslavement, both in his capacity as a member of the Small Council, and in relation to his invasion of the Iron Islands. And then one charge which Daenerys had insisted on adding out of pure devilment; forcibly wedding Sansa Stark. It took nearly two hours to present all the charges. Plenty of others were in attendance, including the Dornish delegation.

After that, the witnesses gave their testimony; freed slaves, noblewomen, Dornish civilians, survivors of the prison camps. Only a fraction of its victims and their relatives. Had they all attended, the trial would have taken months. Grey Worm, too, testified that the creature had attempted to reinstate slavery in Meereen, in Daenerys’ absence. And then the final surprise, to most of those gathered to watch the proceedings. Jon Snow himself appeared, to give evidence, that yes, the Imp had persuaded him to murder the Empress, in order to save its own life, and had told him a pack of lies in the process. Once again, she wondered why the man was not facing trial for this himself, but this was a matter for Daenerys, not her. Then finally, Sansa Stark, brought from her custody in the Maidenvault in order to testify against the Imp. Yara wondered, too, what Daenerys had in store for her. The woman was a traitor, and should suffer a traitor's death, as far as she was concerned. Not to mention her crimes on the Iron Islands. Not as bad as what she had in mind for the Imp, but she'd happily see her hang. Still, Daenerys seemed unsure what to do with a deposed Queen. And, there was Arya's reaction to consider too. Yara had no love for her either, she seemed a deadened and dangerous woman, but she had proved her loyalty to the Empress.

Yara had simply wanted the vile stump to be put to death in the worst manner possible, but she had to admit, there was something satisfying in seeing it having to confront some of its victims. Daenerys had been clear that she wanted the regime’s crimes recorded for posterity. The Imp was forced to stand before its victims, unable to meet their gaze. It was early evening by the time they had finished, and the case would resume on the morrow.

The following morning, they continued. The monster was given the opportunity to speak in its defence. And how predictable it was! It blamed its crimes on other members of the Small Council, on its subordinates, claimed it had acted under duress, and denied ever having committed treason towards the Empress. It flatly accused both Grey Worm and Jon Snow of lying, insisting that the latter had committed regicide on his own initiative. It had wanted to put him to death for it, at the meeting at the Dragonpit, but King Brandon and Queen Sansa had refused. A stupid falsehood, given that she had been present at that meeting. There was no need even to bring Sansa back to give evidence on that point. She sensed Daenerys’ mounting irritation as she heard the monster utter one lie after another. They withdrew to consider their verdict.

“Obviously guilty on all charges, Your Majesty, Your Grace,” commented Valyn. There was no real dispute about that. The only real discussion was about the sentence. The Archmaester favoured burning at the stake. Yara herself wanted the filthy creature flayed alive in public, after first being blinded and gelded. “Not drowned, Yara?” enquired the Empress, sounding amused.

“You think I’d want that turd serving the Drowned God throughout eternity?” she responded. “Uncle Aeron would call it heresy”, she added, laughing. Then Daenerys reminded them of her promise to the Dornish. They returned to the Hall, to pass judgement.

“Tyrion of House Lannister”, pronounced Daenerys “You are found guilty on all charges. On an evil day, I rescued you from bondage. You repaid my trust with treachery and murder. Yet, this was but a foretaste of crimes you would commit under the Three-Eyed Raven. You are the very worst of traitors, but treason is not even the worst of your crimes. You are a slaver, a murderer, and a rapist. The sentence for any one of these offences is death. You have earned a thousand deaths. The entirety of the property of House Lannister is forfeit to the Crown. In turn, the Crown grants Casterly Rock, Faircastle, The Crags, The Shield Islands, to Queen Yara Greyjoy of the Iron islands, and her heirs for all time, to hold as a fief. “ Yara grinned at the look of indignant fury on the Imp’s face. Lannisport would be retained by the crown, but it was still a mighty gift of lands, and would provide the Ironborn with the rich farmland they lacked at home.

“Yet it is not fitting that the sentence be carried out in the capital. Our judgement is that you be handed to the Dornish, to use as they see fit.” Yara glanced at Lady Gwyneth and the Dornish, seeing their faces light up with joy. Oh, how she wished she could travel with them to Sunspear to witness the creature’s death! She’d insist that Gwyneth write to her, giving her a full, and detailed, description of how the beast met its end. The Imp fell to its knees shrieking “You spared Jon Snow – spare me and I shall be your most loyal subject!” cut off with a good, hard kick in the face from one of the guards. The Dornish took him, and dragged him from the Hall, still raving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> 1\. There are some very old stories of the classic noble sovereign who rejects an offering of the head of their enemy, and punishes those who presented it, for the disgrace of killing Lordly or Noble blood.
> 
> 2\. the Dornish will be subject to Westeros, but only in the loosest of terms. This is more a protectorate, than vassalage. Meanwhile, Yara will have to do homage for her lands on the mainland, but not for the Iron Islands, which shall remain independent. The situation is similar to the King of England also being Duke of Acquitaine. The revenues of Yara’s fief might actually exceed those of the Iron Islands, as those of the Duchy of Acquitaine sometimes exceeded those of England.
> 
> 3\. The lands of the Starks may be forfeit to the Crown, but that doesn't mean that Arya won't have them restored to her personally as Daenerys continues her administrative actions; that is a symbolic way of dispossessing the family and regranting it under her own terms, perhaps with many of the old Stark Lands permanently under an Intendant, giving their revenues to the Crown, even if Arya has the High Lordship.
> 
> 4\. Both Alicent Hightower and Helaena Targaryen were treated with humanity by Rhaenyra when she took Kings Landing. Royalty may kill each other, but generally don’t treat each other with indignity.


	26. The First Desserts

Sansa had fallen unconscious, after Shiera drank her blood. She woke, to find Elaena holding her, while Shiera dressed her wound. She felt desperately weak. Elaena produced a hip flask, from which she drank greedily. Sitting up, she asked what had happened. They told her of the victory over the Great Other, and the deaths of Kinvara and Val. When she was strong enough to stand, they led her towards the exhausted dragon. All of them were drained by the fighting, and spent the day resting. The following day, they bade fairwell to the Night’s Queen, and started back for Kings Landing, flying by easy stages, and camping in the evening. She had been left unbound, after pledging to make no escape attempt. In truth, Shiera would gut her without difficulty if she did, but even without that, she realised there was nowhere to escape to. On reflection, she thought that offering herself for sacrifice might have been the best way out her predicament. It seemed she would be spared the worst forms of torture, and that was a relief, but there was surely no way she’d be permitted to live out her days.

During the course of the journey, she had spoken several times to the others. She learned that Jon was on Dragonstone, and her sister was now a commander in the Imperial army. It was a relief to learn that Arya was safe, and had been promised the rule of the North. At least a Stark would remain at Winterfell, even if she was to be a vassal to Daenerys. She longed to see her sister after all these years, yet dreaded that meeting too; she knew full well what Arya would think of her deeds. She hoped that the wildlings had kept their word, and that Robyn, Myranda, and Mya Stone were safe.

They arrived at the Red Keep in mid-afternoon, Targaryen banners already flying over the buildings. She could see that the city resembled a charnel house, the smell of putrefaction everywhere. The palace, however, was largely intact. Then the nightmare! She had known that her brother was truly dead, but to have that thug wave his head in her face! Shiera had offered her some comfort, before she had been separated from the others, and led under guard, to the Maidenvault. Her chamber was spartan, but spacious and had its own privy, and she was allowed to make use of the gardens, watched by guards who were correct, but cold. She was allowed meat and wine and fruit, and provided with books when she requested them. In a moment of honesty, it occurred to her that she would probably not have treated Daenerys so well, were she her prisoner. She learned that Arya and Jon remained on Driftmark, but would come to the city shortly.

Over the course of the next weeks, she was interrogated at length, by her captors. The questioning was not brutal, but it was intensive. She gave them a full inventory of her lands and castles, which would be forfeited to the Crown in due course. On their instructions, she wrote under seal to the remaining Northern lords, releasing them from their oaths of fealty to her, and to her garrison commanders, instructing them to surrender to the Imperial forces. She was granted permission to make her will. She would be allowed to retain her personal effects, which she divided between Arya, Robyn Manderly and Myranda Royce, assuming the latter were still alive. She asked after her friends, and was promised that enquiries would be made. She only saw the Empress three times during this period, first when she was led into the Great Hall, to formally abdicate as Queen in the North, and to renounce any claim on Winterfell, before the assembled magnates, the next time to give evidence against Tyrion, and finally, to witness her coronation. Ironically, she watched from the very gallery where she had witnessed Joffrey ending her betrothal, all those years ago. Fate was inexorable. She had not been asked to join the others in swearing fealty; presumably, there was little point in someone doing so who would shortly be condemned as a traitor. She had cried when told of the death of Brienne, who had been her sworn shield, but was relieved she had died like the knight she had always wanted to be. She felt a growing weight of guilt for her actions.

Finally, she was roused, one dawn, and led under guard, to the Dragonpit. A considerable crowd had already gathered. The onlookers seemed in festive mood, a real sense of anticipation in the air. A reviewing stand had been constructed in the centre, which was already crowded with dignitaries.

A short distance away stood a pyre, a stake atop it. She gasped. So, this was it then? Daenerys had changed her mind, and intended to subject her to the full horror of a traitor’s death, after all. If she was to burn, she had hoped at least the sentence would be carried out by Drogon. This would take far longer. She knew that scores of servants and officials of King Brandon had been executed already. Sensing her thoughts, the commander of the guards reassured her.

“Have no fear, my lady, you are here to witness justice being done.” She was led on to the reviewing stand. Both Jon and her sister were present, and nodded to her. At the front, she saw Daenerys Targaryen, who glanced at her briefly, thoughts unreadable behind her silver mask. Next to her stood Grey Worm, Yara Greyjoy who glared at her, Lady Shiera, and Princess Elaena. Completing the party were Lord Hightower, and a group of Archmaesters from the Citadel. Then to her surprise, she saw Samwell Tarly’s paramour, Gilly, a look of fierce satisfaction on her face. A servant offered her wine and pastries. She took the wine; she doubted if she could hold down food after watching someone being burned. She blushed, as she overheard Gilly talking to Arya, presumably about Tarly “… an’ it was really ‘orrible in bed with him. He just lay on his back like a beached walrus, an’ made me do all the work, while he grunted and groaned, and pulled at my tits.”

She heard a great howl from the crowd, accompanied by a fanfare of trumpets and drums. A pair of horses were pulling a hurdle, to which the condemned man was tied. Two burly guards untied him, and then dragged him towards the pyre, holding him under each arm, as he seemed incapable of walking. Then she recognised him. Grand Maester Tarly himself, wearing his robes of office, now badly torn and soiled. She heard him screaming as he looked up at the pyre.

“He should save his screaming for later” remarked one of the Archmaesters, drily, and the others laughed. The guards dragged him up the steps of the pyre, and briskly chained him to the stake, around his waist and chest, the man still raving and crying. The crowd fell silent, expectant. Princess Elaena addressed Tarly.

“Grand Maester Tarly, you have been condemned for treason, murder, enslavement, breach of your oaths to the Nights Watch and Citadel, and theft. Further, you have published gross slanders against Her Majesty, in your so-called “history.” You have alleged that our dread sovereign sacrificed children to the infernal powers; that she fled from the Night King at Winterfell; that she tortured men, women, and children to death for her own pleasure; that she murdered her brother. You are a false liar and a snake. In the name of the Thrice Exalted Empress, Daenerys of House Targaryen, I sentence you to be burned to ashes, those ashes to be cast into a common sewer. The Lord Paramount of the Reach, Leyton Hightower, and the Conclave of the Citadel, have concurred with this sentence. Your sister, Lady Talla, has also concurred, and she has been confirmed as the Lady of Horn Hill, subject to her agreeing to maintain your paramour Gilly, and her children, who will be legitimised as Florents, by Her Majesty’s decree. Your mother, Lady Melessa, has disowned you. Henceforth, your sister will be known as Lady Talla Florent of Horn Hill.

“You have proved a disgrace to your family, to the Realm, to the Nights Watch, and the Citadel. You have demonstrated that your father’s judgement, that you are a craven and a cur, was correct. The Tarly name dies with you. You have offended rich and poor, great and small alike, and they cry out for justice against you. You are a pariah and a hissing.” He gave a loud wail in response, before babbling for mercy. _Gods above, imagine being loathed by your own mother and sister so much that they want you burned at the stake! _Arya and Jon surely would offer her some comfort, before she was put to death. Mother would have held her tight, and cried with her. She noticed one of the Archmaesters whispering urgently to the young woman.__

“Your pardon. Archmaester Valyn has reminded me that you have never qualified as a Maester, and therefore you can not bear the title of Grand Maester. Novice Samwell, your name will be struck from all official records. Remove his robes of office”, she commanded the guards. Two of them sprung up on to the pyre, and cut the garments from Tarly, leaving him in just his small clothes. To Sansa’s disgust, she noted he had lost control of his bowels, with brown stains running down his chubby legs. Elaena turned to Gilly and nodded. Gilly stepped down from the platform, and walked towards the pyre. She saw the most wonderful look of astonishment on Tarly’s face, before he cried out “Oh, thank the gods, Gilly. Save me, Gilly!” She gave him a long hard stare, before turning to the guards, one of whom handed her a burning torch. “Gilly, no!” he shrieked, “I’ve always been good to you!”

“Sam, you’re a sack of shit” she heard the woman say. “You’re more disgusting than my father was. I’ve dreamed of this for years. I know your father and brother were traitors, but the Queen’s Grace told me they died bravely. But you! Thank the gods my children will never know what a cowardly piece of shit their father was. My children, Sam, not yours.” Tarly broke down in tears, as Gilly nodded, smiling. She bent forward, applying the torch to the kindling, underneath the logs that supported the pyre. “Go now, to your fate; traitor, evil man, slaver. Go now to your own justice, murderer, thief, oath-breaker, false liar!”, proclaimed Elaena, as the crowd roared their approval, cries of “burn him, tear him”, echoing round the Pit. Another fanfare accompanied the sentence.

For a time, nothing seemed to happen. Smoke rose from underneath the pyre, but it was fifteen minutes at least before the logs started to blaze. Sansa forced herself to look, as Tarly howled and sobbed, dancing from foot to foot, no doubt scorched by the heat. She guessed that the heat must have travelled up the iron stake, as well. And how the crowd cheered and laughed at his antics! At last, flames emerged through gaps in the platform, licking up round his legs and stomach, and making his small clothes smoulder. Sansa winced, as she imagined his private parts being burned away. By now, the sounds he made were scarcely human , as he struggled fruitlessly in his chains, which had begun to glow orange, grilling his flesh. Worse, a smell like roasted pork began to waft from the pyre. She looked away, unable to bear the sight any longer, although she continued to hear his shrieks, above the roar of the fire, briefly growing in intensity, before subsiding to choked moans, and then silence, as ashes drifted down among them. She stole another quick glance, seeing the platform now burned away. Tarly’s charred corpse had slid down among the burning logs. Guards continued to feed the flames, determined to carry out the sentence to the letter.

She looked at the faces of her companions. Fierce satisfaction for the majority, including her own sister. Gilly wore a broad grin. Jon, she noted, looked sick. Tarly had once been his closest friend after all. Sansa hoped she would show more courage than Tarly when her turn came, but she had no doubt she too would be screaming by the end, if she were sentenced to burn.

“So perish all traitors, my lady” murmured the commander. “It is the only way with such scum, would you not agree?”

* * *

She had given up trying to make sense of it. She was hailed as the Princess of Dragonstone, the Heiress of the Empress. Courtiers offered her their services. She was in command of the garrison of the city. And she went home at night to her apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast, and slept with a man she despised.

If he was a husband, that might have been all well and good. One did not have to like their husband. And she was certainly capable of sleeping with him. He had a certain earthy charm, but was not a perfect boor. The combination had gotten, dare she admit it, _fun._ Some of it early on had been the pure pleasure of teasing him with the fact that she was so much more experienced than she was at almost absolutely everything when it came to making love. By the standards of a High Caste Volantene woman, she had personally been a prude…

Well, by the standards of the _North,_ she was rather obviously an Essosi, and there was a certain measure of fun in taking advantage of that. It still made her uncomfortable. _Daenerys wants me to do this. Daenerys is the one who set this up. She has a purpose, a mission for me._ It was easier when she had absolutely hated her mission. Now, well, she was sleeping with Jon, there was no way around that. Even when she was doing it by the Empress’ command, she felt like it was something of a betrayal.

She shifted the tea pot, and watched the leaves from distant Yi-Ti swirl. That, the sour Dornish reds she had come to associate with Lys and Maekar, and silken nightclothes were her three real luxuries she allowed herself, with her austere presentation as the warrior heiress of the Liberator. Elaena certainly could have access to more if she wished. But she was living in a city that didn’t even have adequate sewers or baths, and was acutely conscious of her image around others.

Straining the leaves from the pot, she poured the first cup for herself. Her apartments were atop the Kitchen Keep of the Holdfast, with their own small solar. The servants had told her that the beast, Tyrion, had once occupied them, years before. They had been rarely used since, and a cascade of leftover fine furniture from various half-ruined sets had been pieced together for her use. Someday, all the streets of King’s Landing would be paved, and an entire industry would again be kept alive by the court, of skilled craftsmen making fine things.

But reaching that point would be long and difficult. She set the cup down for a moment, and picked up a document that contained the initial surveys of a course for an aqueduct, to the northwest. A second one to the southwest could also be built, but would require a bridge on the Blackwater to be successful. The northwest aqueduct would have to be first; Elaena was a Volantene at heart, cities had bridges as far as she was concerned and she wanted a bridge on the Blackwater, but to allow the critical passage of ships upstream, it would be a very great work indeed. The northwest aqueduct would come first.

There was a sound of a door opening, and she glanced up. “...Jon.”

“Elaena.” He was comfortable around her now; she wasn’t sure what to think of that. “I was in the Godswood.” These days, he had the freedom of the Red Keep, but was still not permitted to leave it for the city generally.

“I’m sure…”

“I know you’re a follower of the Lord of Light, but the Gods—they matter to us, in the North. I can’t give that up.”

“We will have religious freedom in all of Her Majesty’s domains,” Elaena rose, feeling a moment of bemusement, though. “It’s good that you get worked up about something, however. I like to see some boldness from you.” She gestured to the chair in front of her. “Have a seat, Jon.”

“It’s hard to be bold when you’re a prisoner in a gilded cage,” he answered.

“I suppose you’re right. I’ll ask Her Majesty for permission for you to go out on the town, on your word that you won’t try to escape.”

He nodded.

“Do you want any wine?”

“It wouldn’t be terrible.”

Elaena flashed another smile. His dourness could be charming, in small doses. She called for the wine, and drank it, regarding Jon for a while. He didn’t seem like he had been dead, in the slightest. But, Elaena was not yet pregnant, so she wondered if Daenerys’ plan would even work out in the end, or if it would all be for not.

She hoped not. She did, still, very much want to continue Daenerys’ family for her.

In a certain way that she found mildly disturbing and yet also pleasant, Jon was growing on her. Seized by the impulse of conflicting emotions, she got up, and he looked at her for a moment, as she stepped over, and with a gentle smile, sweetly planted a kiss on his forehead.

* * *

Arya was saluted by the guards at the Maidenvault. Despite her position, she was dressed as usual, like a senior servant. She had no interest in the trappings of rank. She had come to Kings Landing a week previously, to watch some of the trials, and the execution of Tarly. Now, the most difficult meeting of all lay ahead of her. The reunion with her sister, more than three years after they had last met. What did she feel? Fury, grief, disgust, but despite everything, some semblance of love. Oh, but it was hard! She had sent word that she would be meeting Sansa, earlier in the day. A maid greeted her, and then withdrew.

Her sister sat before her. She had lost weight, since she said goodbye to her, in Winterfell, now gaunt, drawn. And ashamed. Unable to look Arya in the eye. There was a long silence. Then eventually, Sansa began;

“I’m sorry, Arya, so sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Sorry that you lost your crown? Or sorry for what you did? Selling slaves? Butchering your own folk. Failing to tell Jon about the Vale Knights? Pitching him into a conflict with the Empress for your own benefit? Chucking him into the wilderness, once he’d served his turn. Breaking an oath before a heart tree? Lying to me that she was a threat? Serving a monster? Tell me if there’s anything I’ve left out?”

“There is”, Sansa replied softly. “I knew what Varys intended. I helped him.” She had suspected it, but still she felt a wave of disgust to have it confirmed. Without thinking she said it:-

“You deserve to die!” Sansa’s head snapped up. Then she said, softly,

“Yes, I suppose I do.” There was a long pause.

“I’m very sorry, I should never have said that, but for the gods’ sake, what do you think Mother, Father, and Robb are thinking, if they can see you?”

“I imagine they must despise me, utterly.”

“Can you at least explain why you acted as you did? And, don’t pretend to me you were upset about the deaths when this city fell?”

“Of course I wasn’t. These people cheered when father was beheaded. They chose Cersei, and they chose wrong.” She sighed, and then began, “All my life, I’ve been afraid of being in the power of another person. You know what Cersei, Littlefinger, and the Beast were like. You know I fell in love with Joffrey, who turned out to be a monster; after that, I fell in love with Margaery Tyrell. I thought she loved me in turn. She said when I married Loras, I’d become her lady in waiting, and we’d spend the rest of our lives together. I suppose Mother might have been shocked at the thought of it, but I thought I’d be safe and cherished. It turned out she and that vile bitch who ruled her family were just framing me for Joffrey’s murder. What did I know? I was seventeen at the time, and had no idea she was just using me.“ She then continued at length, making many of the same points as she had to Wolkan, all those years ago. Arya found her own expression softening as she listened. She choked in disgust when told of Ramsay’s plans for Sansa after she had given birth. She had known that the man had abused her sister, but Sansa had not disclosed the full extent of it, when they were at Winterfell.

“You were a victim, too,” she said at the end. “And, it’s not like I’ve got clean hands, either. I’ve committed murder. And I urged Jon to kill the Empress,”

“But, you’ve proved your loyalty to her, since then, I imagine. I don’t think she’ll give me that chance. And, why should she? I don’t know what, exactly, she has planned for me, but she can’t allow me to live, I know that. I’m not afraid to die. I just don’t want to die like Tarly. Having people laugh and mock as I burn.”

“Despite everything, I don’t think that’s going to happen. I’ve spoken to Princess Elaena. She’s made no promises, but I’m pretty certain of it. You were a Queen, you are a woman, and Jon and I are speaking up for you. And, I'm told you begged for the lives of your followers and your women, rather than your own. I mean, Tarly was so despised, even his own family wanted him to burn. His sister agreed with the sentence. Gilly actually lit the pyre. She enjoyed doing it. Imagine being burned alive by your own lover!"

“She didn't think much of his prowess in bed", remarked Sansa, drily.

Arya laughed, then "Well, she's a wildling. They're not people I'd want to cross. But, there was a whole lot more to it than that. She felt very strongly that Tarly had betrayed her trust, and she hated him for his crimes. Not to mention that he had made her his whore, and their children bastards. What was he thinking? Claiming the position of Grand Maester, when he'd never even qualified? No wonder they hated him at the Citadel."

"He got greedy. Like me. If I'd stayed loyal, I'd have almost all the power of a Queen, if not the title.” 

"You were corrupted by the Three-Eyed Raven."

"At least you'll rule the North. Thank the gods you picked the winning side."

"I imagine I'm going to be looking after a horde of our relatives from the Vale and Riverlands. They're all having their lands confiscated. " Sansa winced. "I've news of your lady in waiting, Myranda Royce. She's being sent to Winterfell with the other prisoners. Her family's been attainted, so I guess I'll have to look after her, too. Lady Mormont's been put in charge for the time being. She marched down from Deepwood Motte. Her family will be given White Harbour. "

"And, my squire, Robyn Manderly?".

"He's with them too, along with Wolkan and Mya Stone. Is he more than just your squire?"

Ayra laughed as she saw Sansa blush and nod.

"Tell me of your adventures since we last met," said Sansa. So, they talked for hours. the ice between them gradually thawing.

* * *

After Tarly’s execution, and the Imp’s condemnation, the tenor in the palace changed. Some men were jubilant, for justice was finally being done. Others were, of course, struck by their own morality. The execution of Bronn had, in a concession for his opening the city and not forcing a battle in which the smallfolk would suffer, been a quick and relatively painless affair, been done early on. Tarly’s execution marked the beginning of the parade of the most prominent traitors, following a trial, and thus marked an entirely different kind of affair.

It was a reminder that this was not all a dream of a midsummer night, a mere liberation. There was an accounting, too. An accounting of the wrongs and crimes which had been committed by the regime which had first stopped Daenerys from taking her rightful throne, and then oppressed the people of the land.

Few understood exactly why the Three-Eyed Raven had done what he had done. It was only from Shiera that they began to understand in full the idea that the monster itself fed off of war and death and destruction. In the context of its acts being intentional for the express purpose of spreading chaos, so much more of the past years began to make sense.

Perhaps she should not have been surprised, as the consequences of decisions made in years past came home to roost, that Jon came to talk with her. The subject of the conversation certainly made sense.

Sansa Stark. The woman he knew as his sister, the woman was in fact his cousin. His kin.

“She was there, to witness Sam’s execution,” he continued, haltingly, after broaching the subject. “You know, Sam was once my friend.”

“Was he?” Elaena cocked her head. “Then you have a terrible choice in friends, Jon.”

His face flared with a rare expression, frustration and anger. “Please, Ela. He _was my friend._ When we were both in the Black Watch. I had precious few of those in my life, even if he did betray me in the end. It’s all right for me to be upset at his death, I’m sure of that.”

Elaena groaned softly and reached for a goblet of wine. “My dear Jon, let’s be clear about this. Scurrilous bastards like Samwell Tarly being your friends are exactly why you’re presently not allowed to leave the Red Keep for a very good reason. A man who could never control his own appetites or uphold his oaths, a cowardly self-promoter. He served the Three-Eyed Raven most willingly.”

Jon glared at her for a moment, but in the end sighed and backed down. “I acknowledge that his fate was Just. None would argue that a traitor and a servant of a monster like the Three-Eyed Raven should live. I will thank my Gods until my dying day that we put an end to his power.”

Elaena was feeling particularly irritated with Jon that day, even as they’d drawn closer. _You had a very small part in that, compared to us._ “Alright, so. Your sister. Witnessed Sam’s execution.”

“Is she next for the flames?” He asked bluntly when Elaena re-centred the conversation onto Sansa.

“No. She will be well-treated until we get around to a trial, and during and after it as well. There _will_ be a trial, and much will depend on what the Small Folk of the North say about her, I think, because that is the opinion that Her Majesty cares the most about. But it’s not an urgent matter, compared with all the other matters we must address.”

“She deserves to live,” Jon begged. “Let her go to Essos even as a commoner, she could find her way as a seamstress somewhere. I’d gladly face my own punishment for her and everyone. Arya could give her …”

“Don’t speak for your sister. I like to think I’m friends with Arya, and she’s disgusted with Sansa’s conduct.” In fact, Elaena _was_ Arya’s friend, even though Arya’s attitudes sometimes scared her—the woman seemed shockingly uncaring of any morality at all, and liked to play games with those she hated. But she had been scarred by her experiences in the wars, just like Sansa, as Arya had relayed, had suffered so terribly in the Game of Thrones which had played out in Westeros before Daenerys’ fateful arrival with her Army of the Free.

“That doesn’t mean that she wants Sansa to _die,_ Ela. And I don’t either. We have something, and I don’t know what and I don’t know why, but we do. Let’s – Isn’t there anything you can do for her? Intercede with the Empress?”

Elaena sat her goblet down slowly, and looked up at Jon. “Sometimes, one can’t escape the consequences of one’s choices. Sansa was a Queen, and she’s suffered greatly, and the Empress is very much aware of both of these facts. She regrets the choices that Sansa made in her life, and wishes that she could have claimed Westeros as Queen when she first arrived, with the support and succour and friendship of the House Stark. The situation could have been greatly better for all the people of this land, and of course for Her Majesty, who suffers each day in pain from the consequences of the wounds you inflicted upon her, Jon.”

Jon recoiled at that, a visible flinch.

“She deserves some consideration. I will make sure of that. Her punishment is much dependent on the circumstances of her life, in consideration for what the consequences of her actions will be. But the Empress will punish her in some way, if her crimes against smallfolk were egregious. She could pardon the conspiracy against her own person, because her heart is still that great,” Elaena looked significantly at Jon, “but she will not pardon savageries against the common folk. That is not part of who she is. And I cannot change that, just because she made me her heir. Nor, Jon, whatever we have, would I want to. Rare is the ruler who cares about her people as much as Daenerys the Stormborn. I am a better woman for being under tutelage, and I cannot forget that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Elaena's speech somewhat resembles Sir William Trussel's judgement on Sir Hugh De Spenser the Younger, hated chief minister of Edward II, in 1326, just before he was emasculated, then hanged, drawn, and quartered, in Hereford Market.
> 
> 2\. Many thanks to Sploot for the wonderful "beached walrus" metaphor. Hopefully, Gilly will enjoy better sex from now on.
> 
> 3\. Sam Tarly’s mother is a Florent by birth.
> 
> 4\. Despite Jon’s anger towards Sam Tarly, (Chapter 21), it was still hard to watch him burn, as the crowd laughed and cheered. Medieval executions were not invariably a form of public entertainment, contrary to popular belief. But, the brutal execution of a hated minister, like De Spenser, or Tarly, would be greeted with joy by the spectators. De Spenser probably suffered even more than Tarly did, as a skilled executioner could keep his victim alive for quite some time while disembowelling him.
> 
> 6\. For tea to survive long transport as in these days, it was compressed in heavy bricks.


	27. Revenge

_Oh gods, oh gods _,__ Tyrion knew that something terrible awaited him. He had spent several weeks sharing a stinking cell in the Red Keep, with Tarly. That cowardly pig had been put to the question, and had then been returned to the cell, snivelling. He had wept and raved, after being sentenced to burn. Both men had been chained up securely, to prevent them harming themselves or each other. They had been spoonfed disgusting gruel and water by their guards, and each provided with a bucket, emptied infrequently, for them to squat over. He had wondered that, unlike his companion, he had not been tortured. It turned out, he was being reserved for the Dornish to punish.

After the Dragonwhore had passed sentence, following his farce of a trial, the Dornish had stripped him, loaded him with chains, and placed him on board a ship, bound for Sunspear. He was guarded day and night. That bitch, Gwyneth Yronwood, had led a group of them into the hold to mock at him. One great bearded brute had introduced himself as the partisan leader, El Matarife. He had casually unbuttoned his breeches and drenched Tyrion with his piss, as the others laughed. He raged at the injustice of it all, especially at Casterly Rock being given to Yara Greyjoy, presumably for her prowess at fucking the Empress! On top of everything else, it turned out that Daenerys Targaryen was a degenerate who coupled with women, and doubtless with many types of animal as well! If only he’d strangled her like Shae, when he’d had the chance!

He had made every effort he could to suborn the guards, promising them rich reward if they should set him free. One or two seemed interested, he thought, until the first mate had got wind of this. The man had warned him that any further attempt would see Tyrion lose a finger. He had continued his efforts, and been duly reported. His right hand had been laid on a block and the mate had severed the middle finger with a cleaver. He had passed out, when the wound was cauterised. It still throbbed relentlessly. The guards had promised him a feast of torture, once he reached Dorne. A pail of seawater, emptied over him from time to time, constituted the extent of his toilet. Now he waited, in the ship’s stinking hold, bearded and lousy. He sensed that the ship had docked, and waited for the end.

He blinked as the trap door opened, flooding the hold with light. “Bring him” the captain commanded the guards. They dragged him up on to the deck, where a jeering crowd of noteables and sailors awaited him. Gwyneth Yronwood, was leading them. She stepped forward, performing a mocking curtsey.

“Lord Imp, we thought you might want to beg for your life. We all enjoy a good beg, you know” she said, grinning. He had to make an effort.

“My lady, I am an innocent man. I did all in my power to prevent atrocities against your people. I never wanted to lead an army into Dorne, indeed, I advised the Small Council against it. Bronn Stokeworth, Ronnett Connington, Utt, Raffington, those were the guilty men. I raged at them for their crimes against your people. “

"Is that so? Are you suggesting that the Empress has misjudged you."

"She has. I never betrayed her, and I never wanted to serve the Three Eyed Raven. Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, those are the guilty parties. Arya Stark, too. They plotted against her from the outset, and I warned her of their treachery. Yet, they have been spared. Her Majesty does not see that they will betray her again."

"I would give Sansa Stark and Jon Snow an eternity of suffering, were they to fall into my hands" remarked Gwyneth, thoughtfully. Was he persuading them? This seemed hopeful.

"Release me, please, so that I may warn Her Majesty of their treason, I beg of you. The Starks are a wretched family. Their father betrayed my nephew, a lad I loved like my own son. “ Then, inspiration struck. “Remember Princess Elia, and her two children. Ned Stark and my own vile father murdered them cruelly. I slew my own father for that deed, as he sat on the privy. Believe me, when I say I am a friend of the Dornish.”

Lady Yronwood gave him a long, cold, stare, before replying.

”My father has told me much of Ned Stark. He fought us on the Trident. He was our enemy, but I also know he was no murderer of mothers and their infants. Venom drips from your serpent’s tongue.”

"Do go on, little Imp" remarked El Matarife, in his deep bass voice. "I find it amusing to watch a viper wriggle and turn, trying to save its foul skin." They all roared with laughter.

What now? He would have begged, sucked cocks, done anything to save his life, but he knew it would be useless. He kept silent, desperately racking his brains for a way of escape. “You won’t treat us to one of your witty japes? I am so disappointed”, continued Gwyneth. “Prepare him.” The guards dragged him down a gangplank onto a jetty. At the far end of the jetty was a frame, propped against a cart, to which a pair of horses was harnessed. They unlocked his chains, before hauling him over to the frame, and tying his hands and legs to it, exposing him to full view. A bucket of water was emptied over his head, and then he was roughly shaved bald. One man placed a paper dunce’s cap on his head, before spitting a mouthful of phlegm into his face, as he cringed away. Then the guards lifted the frame into the cart, wedging it so that it would not fall. They set off for the Shadow City. Quite the crowd had gathered to laugh and mock at him, some pelting him with dung and rotten fruit. He started to weep at the unfairness of it all, only adding to the general merriment. He choked in disgust, as a dog turd splattered across his nose and mouth. To complete his humiliation, he found he had lost control of his bladder, pissing himself uncontrollably. They entered the Shadow City, his entire world now contracted to the shrieking, contorted faces of an entire people expressing their hatred for him. He shut his eyes, desperate to avoid their scorn.

At last the cart halted. He risked a glance, and found they were in a square, thousands of onlookers jeering. In the centre of square, above a fire, was a cauldron, filled, he guessed from the smell, with boiling oil. Smoke rose from the cauldron, as the oil bubbled away. Boiled alive! Never in his worst moments had he thought this would be his fate. What had he been thinking, to betray Daenerys Targaryen, all those years ago! The guards picked up the frame, before laying it down on the ground, Tyrion staring up into the sky. He saw a man in a golden robe, presumably, the Prince of Dorne, looking down at him impassively. Then the man turned to the crowds, and raised his hands.

When they had fallen silent, he proclaimed “Good men and women of the Shadow City. Today, you witness justice being performed on your oppressor. A man whose sins and crimes are beyond count. In her kindness and mercy, our beloved Empress, Her Majesty Daenerys Targaryen, has given him to us to use as we wish. Rest assured, we will not disappoint the Empress! Among his many crimes, this creature destroyed our olive trees, the source of our food and light. It is only fitting that the oil of that fruit be used to inflict his punishment!” And with that, a great roar went up from the crowd.

Mad now with panic, he struggled fruitlessly against his bonds as he watched the Prince approach the cauldron. A guard handed the man a pair of horsehair gloves and a bucket, and proceeded to ladle the boiling liquid into it. The Prince walked back towards Tyrion, by now howling and moaning with fear. Carefully, very carefully, the Prince tipped the liquid over the Imp’s groin, searing his prick and balls. The pain was white hot, infernal, as Tyrion shrieked, the sounds barely human. He stared briefly at the red, blistered ruin of his genitals and screamed again. This time, it was Lady Yronwood who bore a ladle. Rough hands gripped his head, holding it tight, as she tipped the ladle over his eyes. He screamed as the world went dark, blinded as he was by the heated oil, even as more was poured over his face, burning hot. He felt the frame being tipped over, leaving him face down in the dust, grovelling and choking. Then, through his pain, he felt his final humiliation, as a hard implement was thrust deep into his rear parts. He guessed it was a tube, and realised what was coming; he would have wept had he any eyes left to weep with. He howled again, a second later, as he felt scalding liquid enter his bowels, flooding deep into his body. His guts felt as if someone had just lit a bonfire inside them. He felt the tube removed and then an object, like a stopper, being wedged tight in his arse, presumably to prevent the oil from flowing back out. More boiling oil was tipped over the back of his head and his neck; incapable now of screaming, he just grunted in his agony. The frame was then hauled upright. He felt more oil being splashed across his body, but hardly reacted now, so far gone he was with pain. He would suffer a full day of hell, racked with pain and thirst, drifting in and out of consciousness, before he breathed his last. His body was chopped into pieces and fed to pigs.

* * *

Two months after they received notice of Tyrion’s death in Dorne, the situation had generally calmed in the realms. The Maesters had long been opposed to magic and the power of the Targaryen dragons, but short-term interests had overcome that. They had wanted Tarly gone, and they had gotten what they wanted. Likely, they would remain a subtle threat going forward into the future, but that could be dealt with.

For now, then, there was no more opposition. The lands of Westeros were ruined. The wealth of almost every Lord in the realms had been brought to penury. There was no resistance, because there was no money for resistance. Daenerys had made doubly sure of it, by exacting harsh wealth taxes against the Lords who had sought pardons, and taking what was left of their money after a decade of war. She had used it in a negotiated agreement to settle the claims the Iron Bank had against Westeros, and thus had cleared the foolish loans that the Baratheons and Cersei had taken out, without raising taxes on the peasantry.

Of course, Daenerys had a negotiating advantage over the Iron Bank that few rulers could dream of. Daario grinned at that, he could think of Drogon flying over Braavos—it hadn’t happened, but the mere prospect of it had influenced negotiations. The Braavosi were cordial with the regime, but they were also practical, and that meant recognising that Daenerys would quickly draw the line at any scheme for settling the debt that would lay undue hardship on the common people.

And Elaena and Drogon certainly had been visiting many, many Lords, to remind them of their responsibilities to their Empress. She came back with stories of Lords who, in far-flung corners of the Kingdom, had knelt and scraped before Drogon in fear, and others who had almost embarrassed themselves to propose a marriage or offer a son in the same vein.

Daario felt bad for her. He understand why Daenerys had done what she had done, and he didn’t feel a fig of compassion for Jon Snow, but he did sympathise with Elaena being forced to be around him.

With Elaena so busy and so very much in demand because of Drogon, Daario had been given the remit of rebuilding King’s Landing. Unlike the Three-Eyed Raven’s reconstruction, it was not focused on the walls and the Red Keep, but on trying to repair and reconstruct the city for the needs of the people that lived there. Sewers, the beginnings of aqueducts, improving the fountains from wells, drilling new ones and adding cisterns; throwing up new buildings, high tenements in the Essosi style that would at least provide a decent and clean apartment for each family.

He had found that being cynical and worldly-wise was helpful in cutting through the endless layers of excuses and extravagant promises that were offered in the world of building and rebuilding cities. He’d started to cultivate that talent while managing Meereen as the Viceroy for Daenerys when she had sailed for Westeros the _first_ time. And he looked forward to continuing it as the Lord Governor in Tyrosh, the ruler of his native city. 

The Unsullied stood guard as he arrived before the Solar of the Red Keep, which was usually Daenerys’ residence now. Daario was one of the few they allowed to pass under arms into Daenerys’ private chambers—only Yara, Grey Worm and Elaena also had this privilege. 

He bowed, on seeing her there, as she often was, looking out over the city. “Your Majesty, I have come as I was called.” 

“Oh come, Daario, no need to be so formal,” she smiled faintly, unmasked, here, where she was alone. 

Daario unbuckled his sword and hung his outer coat. He stepped over to her side, took the empty chair. “That may be, Daenerys, but you, also, need to stop looking at the city. It’s coming together. The smallfolk know peace.” 

“I won’t forgive myself for the day I acted like all the others,” she answered flatly, but turned to flash a small smile to him. “Still, you are right about this, and I’m going to be doing something about it, in fact. I’m going to return to Dragonstone. I think it’s a better place for me to administer the realms, anyway, my messages will reach Volantis and Meereen faster from there, and … It is the place I was born, and I must say that after all of this, I want to enjoy the Valyrian architecture, the forced air heating, the baths …” 

Daario smiled fondly. “You mean to say, Dany, that you’re homesick?” 

“More than slightly.” Her voice shook. “I was going to complain about the food and the toilets here as well, but then I remembered that’s just a memory, of Dragonstone before, of King’s Landing from the very brief before. A memory I won’t be reprising.” 

“I’d do anything..” He trailed off. She _knew that._ The sad look in his eyes told him as much. 

She smiled, he smiled, both wanly. “Sometimes you don’t get what you want. But I have King’s Landing, the Red Keep, Dragonstone… Maybe I should have stayed with the House with the Red Door. That Red Door, it’s all I remember from my childhood. I suppose it’s best I don’t remember Viserys really, from what I’ve heard, or Drogo. It’s cleaner this way, I wonder if I will remember them when…”

“Dany?”

“Oh, nevermind. I have a request for you, Daario. I’d like you to stay here and finish rebuilding the city.” 

“I’d rather not leave your side.”

“But I _trust_ you. You took very good care of Meereen for me. You’ll do the same to King’s Landing. I can focus on policy for the whole of the realms, and know King’s Landing is in your good hands.”

He closed his eyes. It felt like the future was slipping further away. “If that is your command.”

“It is,” she answered, but rose, and embraced him, and kissed him. “But, not tonight.”

* * *

The Heir of the Thrice-Crowned, Sovereign of Three Empires. The woman who flew throughout Westeros, demanding the submission of the Lords to the Crown. 

When she woke up heaving into a chamber pot, she expected she shared a problem with even the least of baseborn washerwomen.  Elaena was seized with a sudden misery at her situation, lurching over to the wall of her apartments and staring out over the drill grounds of the Red Keep. After a while, she felt better, and called for a simple breakfast. The smell of fresh bread with a pat of butter and hot tea revived her, and she ate quietly, on her own.  After the dry heaves, it felt better than the most lavish meal in the whole world. 

She didn’t want to tell  Daenerys. She wanted to be sure, first. And she  _definitely_ didn’t want to tell Jon; she didn’t even know how to approach that. A wash of conflicting emotions came over her. He was the child’s father by rights, but Daenerys intended for it to matter as  if it were  nothing  at all. 

So she went to Shiera, instead.  N othing more than her mere existence would serve to terrify the Westerosi,  so she took a low profile and had no formal role at court . Even as a heroine, and trusted advisor to the Empress, she was still a dark figure,  most of all for her near-immortality, but also because of the reputed dark powers around her. Still, she had had her revenge, and was Shiera Targaryen by rights now; though she was only  _Lady_ Shiera, not  _Princess._ Even as a Goddess, Daenerys might go too far by making the undead witch  a Princess.

Shiera had set up her apartments in the lower level of the Tower of the Hand, which might normally be occupied by the family of the Hand, but that role was being informally occupied by Yara at the moment. The Westerosi had been forced to get used to many things like that; the commander of the re-formed Goldcloaks was even Sezza mo’Khazziq, the Meereenese soldiering woman, though like most of the other such appointments, it was intended to be as brief as possible until reliable Westerosi men could be found to replace them. Daenerys and Elaena knew well that  beyond just the matter of Shiera that, in general,  pushing to far, too fast would produce a backlash even to a woman now worshipped in some quarters of the world as a Goddess. 

Elaena arrived at Quaithe/Shiera’s apartments and knocked. “M’lady?”

“Come in, Elaena, we do need to talk.” She was there, in her mask, in the back of the apartment, and only after Elaena had gone through three doors did she her, supervising a bubbling cauldron.

“I think I’m pregnant,” Elaena said simply. “It’s been twice the length of my time, and this morning I came down sick, for no reason at all, and I felt somewhat faint, too. Though I’ve held my food since, and I’ve no fever.”

“You are,” Shiera agreed, and slipped the mask off to face her.

Elaena stared for a moment. “You’re sure?”

“I smell the changes to your body. Daresay I can smell them.”

“Did you _already know,_ then?”

“Yes, but I didn’t wish to surprise you, or make you hear it, and doubt that it was true.” A grin struck the woman’s face, and then she stepped out and tenderly embraced Elaena. “You must go with us to Dragonstone, with the Queen. There, I will supervise the pregnancy and the birthing myself, and we’ll keep you away from these Maesters and their leaches.”

Elaena laughed ruefully. “Thank you. It means more than the world to me at this point. Uhm… They?”

“Twins, dear.”

“OH God.”

Shiera’s laugh was almost merry, but not quite, as she turned back to her cauldron. “Is there anything else?”

“How… What should I do in regard to telling Jon?”

“Nothing, let the Empress do that, when and if it pleases her. Though certainly I suspect that you can stop laying with him, if that suits you at this point. Or she may even command it.”

Elaena grimaced faintly. She was angry at him, probably never would stop being angry at him for what he had done to Daenerys, but it still didn’t sit well.

* * *

Dragonstone had become a home and a refuge for the entire Imperial Court. Derlyn was becoming prosperous again, filled with Essosi settlers and the warehouses and docks being repaired. Drogon nested on the Dragonmount, and descended to Dragonstone Castle for food on a regular basis. 

Elaena often took evening walks with Shiera amidst the heather and the moors near the castle on the uplands of the island, which were filled with sheep and marked by nothing more than tidy little roads and small Crofter’s villages. Slowly she had grown more pregnant, while Daenerys held court from the great hall with the Painted Table which was the symbol of authority, and conquest, and indeed of the House Targaryen.

Together, they had explored the castle, and made an incredible discovery. Hidden behind a bookshelf in the heart of the Old Library (the books were long abandoned, replaced by those of the Maesters), was a passage which lead for an incredible length toward the heart of the Dragonmont, growing hotter and hotter as it went. Shiera discovered a way to activate charms along the walls, which glowed queerly like the Glass Candles now did, with the flickering power of magic having come back into the world. 

Though, due to her pregnant condition, Daenerys had prevailed upon her to avoid further explorations, Shiera had ultimately presented to the two of them together an incredible work: A black-rock hewn scale model of the Dragonpit, like it had been created by the same magic which forged Black Rock, in Valyrian roads and walls, but as a prototype to that tremendous work which had become such a miserable ruin. 

“All the scholars of building and construction we have brought from Essos express wonder, and say it could not stand on its own, despite the fact that it once did,” Elaena remarked in wonder. 

“That is because, Visenya used the sacrifice of those burned in her sister’s Sept, as the power by which to make the beams into black rock, thus giving them the strength to hold up the rest,” Shiera explained. “That’s what the fragments of the texts say. We are transcribing all we can.” 

“Do they say anything else?” Daenerys asked, looking out the windows from the solar to the sea and the iron-bound coast beyond. 

“They speak only of her wistful hope for another,” Shiera answered. “I … Am not sure, but I think her blood might not be entirely extinct.” 

“That would be fabulous, if true; but it could only be a bastard of Maegor’s, and he would have put any bastard of his on the Iron Throne as his heir, even a girl-child, without hesitation. Such was Maegor’s obsession.”

“If he had known that she existed,” Shiera shrugged. “Well, it is alluded to, a granddaughter, and sometimes I have felt that I am not the only one who practices this magic, but if it is so, then she is very far away, and this realm is not her story; and she would be near-akin to me by this age, even if she was a very powerful Storm Singer and Blood Mage indeed. Or perhaps it is descendants in turn that I sometimes feel a whisper of. It’s nice not to have all of the mystery gone from the world.”

“I think there’s more than enough mystery, in dark places,” Daenerys answered. “I have had quite enough of this world. Please do continue your other work. It may be the only chance for me to fly with my son again, soon enough.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” 

“Your Majesty?” Elaena asked, preparing to turn to follow. 

“Don’t worry,” Daenerys laughed. “I won’t come between you and him, and you won’t come between me and him, either. It will all work out alright.” 

And then Elaena felt a very distinctive sort of pain. “Ahh! Daenerys, Shiera?” 

They both stopped, and looked to the young woman of Saera’s line. 

“...I think it may well be time.” 

Shiera handled the birthing, with Yara close by. Sansa was a prisoner in the household, and still well treated; she was allowed to be near, though not present in the room itself, but in the antechamber where Yara waited with the Empress. There, she was allowed to work with the Ladies-in-Waiting, boiling rags and cloths and having them available at Shiera’s insistence, but after a while, they were told to leave, and served a feast in honour of the young Prince and Princess, but she was not allowed to be present for the viewing. 

After twelve hours, Elaena, bathed in sweat and exhausted, had delivered two healthy children, though she was bedridden for near the next week; pregnancy was often hardest, the first time, and let alone with twins. But she rallied, and was back up and riding two weeks later, after spending some time nursing her own children, to the shock of the women of the castle, at Shiera’s advice, until at last being prevailed upon for a nursemaid. 

Jon was not allowed to see his own children.

They looked purely Targaryen.

* * *

Elaena had evaded Jon for the first months after she gave birth. During the first weeks, she had been unwell; then she had taken to riding horses to regain her strength, and then to flying Drogon to regain her confidence in the dragon-saddle.  There was nursing her children, handing them off to the wet-nurse, and of course, naming them. Prince Aegon, Princess Rhaella. Those were the names that Daenerys chose and Elaena concurred with, and they were not at all bad. One Aegon because, of course one had to be Aegon.

And one Rhaella because Daenerys spent a great deal of time thinking about her mother, those days.  Daenerys had spent the last year busy forcing through reforms to the laws of the realms, and trying to administer her sprawling set of three Empires. A raven network now existed for Essos as well, allowing some communications to occur quickly, and Shiera had made arrangements to keep glass candles lit at Volantis and Meereen, which meant that at least the two other capitals were linked to Dragonstone for the purpose of instant communications, albeit through cut-outs. She was constantly busy with the affairs of three Empires, but one could sense a certain restlessness in her, and Elaena, as the children started to grow healthy and strong past the time of peak danger, and she herself recovered, stood proud at the ceremony where Daenerys lawfully made them Targaryens and part of the succession to the Three Thrones, started to appreciate fully and be thankful of just how much more content the children made Daenerys; but it seemed an ominous, quiet kind of contented.

Jon finally caught up with her in the stables of Dragonstone Castle. He contrived to help some of the stable-hands with shoeing a horse, and rose to greet her just after she passed, returning from riding. 

“Your Highness.” 

“Jon,” Elaena allowed, freezing in place for a moment. It was a remember of the passion they had shared, the tenderness and pleasure that had blossomed in the midst of what had at first been a compelled relationship. _Rape,_ she’d called it then, but in any such situation, if it goes on long enough, accommodations get made. 

“I wanted to offer you my wishes for your health. I heard it was hard,” he began, hesitating. 

“I’m better now, as you can see. A dragonlord can’t be weak, in heart or soul or body, and I’m proud of myself for recovering as I did. I’m sure I’ll have many more—Lady Shiera says it gets easier after the first pregnancy. I… What do you want, Jon?” 

“I want us to…” He took a step closer. “Was there ever anything real there, Ela?”

“There was,” she answered. “I don’t know what the Lord would have me call it. I think it not love, but it was something that was important, and mattered, I acknowledge that much, Jon.” 

“Not love, but we’ve two children from it. They call that a sin where I was raised.”

“They’re legitimate, Jon, by the Empress’ decree. That’s all that matters. They have in them the blood of the Dragon.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know. I haven’t even _seen_ them, Ela.”

She stiffened, winced. Flushed. It was true. It felt awful, in a certain way. “I’m sorry.”

“Can’t I just see them, even only a single time, Ela?” 

“I can’t give that to you, Jon.”

“...And why not? You’re their mother.” 

“The Empress specifically ordered that you not be allowed to see them, Jon.” 

He froze. Looked poleaxed, really. By now, the stable-hands were edging away, wanting to be as far from that conversation as possible. “She ordered you not to let me see them?” 

“Aye, that’s the Lord’s own truth.” 

“I…”

“Jon, if you don’t like it, go have an audience with her, ask her, but she gave me the absolute strictest instructions that you were to never see them. They are her children, in her mind, not your’s.”

“But that’s just damn well not true. I’m their father. And it should count for something.” 

“You killed her.” 

He looked as if he had been hit. She couldn’t resist, she repeated it again. “You killed her, Jon. Ask her if you want to, but I’d thank the Gods you worship if I were you, given this life you’ve had these past two years, when you’re by rights the murderer of the Empress.”

Jon turned away, in anger. “I  _will_ see her. A man should not be denied seeing his children grow up.” 

He stalked off, and Elaena watched him go, and then quietly under her breath, said, “but the noose denies to a man seeing his children grow up, if he is a murderer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Olive oil starts smoking at 200 degrees. This temperature is high enough to inflict intense pain, without being high enough to destroy nerve endings. Tyrion would therefore have felt as if he was being burned alive, without suffering sufficient harm to kill him swiftly. The Dornish are expert at these things.
> 
> 2\. Turandokht wants to admit to throwing out a small reference, viz. Visenya, to my story "The Blood-Drenched Tide", here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040797/chapters/52602988


End file.
